Writing Institutes Literary Journal - Summer 2015

Writing Institutes Literary Journal Summer 2015

Academic Writing Institute

2

Why I’m a Writer Quick, easy text messages and the never-ending virtual chatter of social media have captured the minds of thousands of teenagers, but in my case, they will never replace creative writing. Writing has always been my strongest talent, which is why I want to turn it into a career someday. My passion for writing started when I was young, and it grew with me. I’ve loved creative writing since I was five or six years old. Most of my first pieces were one-page, handwritten stories about a girl’s day at the park, a princess, or anything else that sparked my imagination. Over time, my stories became longer until I wrote short, illustrated books and later, full -length novels. I started my first novel, From Ordinary to Extraordinary, when I was about ten years old, which detailed the comedic story of a girl who struggled to find a talent of her own while living with her four celebrity sisters. Since then, novel-writing has been one of my biggest outlets, which is why I call myself a writer.

About three years after I started my first novel, I wrote much of my second, The Trials of Tabitha, during National Novel Writing Month when I was thirteen. For NaNoWriMo, I challenged myself to write the first 50,000 words of this novel over the course of November- a task which proved to be exceedingly demanding yet incredibly exhilarating. To accomplish this, I wrote approximately 2,000 words per day. Although I sometimes fell behind on my daily word count, I caught up by writing extra during Thanksgiving break and won NaNoWriMo. One of the things I enjoyed about this experience was that I met with a writing group at the library every week, which was started by my friends’ mom earlier that year, so we could write together and discuss what we were writing.

When our group did NaNoWriMo, we started writing a few days into November, which allowed me little time to brainstorm before I began. Therefore, I had to develop characters and plot as I wrote, which added to the thrill of writing. As I struggled to figure out who my characters should be, I had no idea that now, almost two years later, they would seem like real people. I felt as if I was in the story when I reread parts of the novel, becoming either Tabitha or one of her friends they avoid the school bullies, look for adventure in their backyard woods and on a camping trip, and confront the evil yet hilarious villain, Maud, who tries to take a long-held grudge against her sister out on them.

Writing The Trials of Tabitha helped me express and learn new things about myself. Tabitha, the quirky, adventurous introvert whom the story revolves around, is practically my opposite in terms of our likes and dislikes. Because of our differences, I didn’t know at first if I could make her seem like a real person. I like reading and writing, and Tabitha likes science and math. I want to become an author and singer, and Tabitha aspires to be a scientist and explorer. However, making Tabitha and I so unlike allowed me to see the world from a different perspective. Writing from Tabitha’s point of view for so long helped me realize that science and math aren’t as dull as I thought they were. As I developed Tabitha’s character, we ended up sharing similarities as well. Both Tabitha and I do well in school and care a lot about our integrity, and although we like to make friends and be around people, we’re also happy being alone for a few hours to read or do schoolwork.

Creating Tabitha’s world allows me to take my most memorable experiences and the adventures I dream of having, and merge them into a funny, captivating and somewhat realistic novel. I finished the first Trials of Tabitha novel last year, and I’m now writing a sequel-- with more explorations and character development than ever. This sequel features all of my previous characters a year later, with Tabitha and many of her friends in high school. During this time, Tabitha transfers to a rigorous private school and her friend Amanda avoids creepy Henry Fink, who has a massive crush on her. Amanda and Tabitha also try to convince Amanda’s sister, Angel, that it’s okay for Amanda to go to the Homecoming dance with Nate, whom Amanda actually likes. However, Tabitha and her friends are still trying to stop Maud from destroying their future careers as explorers due to resentment for her sister, who was an explorer before she died. While I’ve only begun writing this novel, I’ve already incorporated part of my high school experience, including social drama, lunchroom disasters, and crazy pep assemblies. I’ve also included at least one trait from my own personality or life in each of the characters, whom I develop more and more as the story continues. Tabitha and I both have high ambitions for the future. I want to become a famous author whose books are known worldwide, and Tabitha wants to discover a new animal species, element, or something else in nature. Who I am, from my fifteen-year-old life to my unique personality to my sky-high dreams for the future, is all reflected in my writing.

Alexandra Good will soon be moving to San Diego, California from St. Louis, Missouri, where she went to Parkway West High school. She is a sophomore who loves to write, sing, and dance.

3

My Retreat After a tiring day at school, it's nice to go to my room and take a long, refreshing nap on my bed. I meander in, aimlessly throwing my backpack on the ground. Cautiously navigating my way through the maze of dirty clothes sprawled out on the floor, I finally make it to my bed. On top of it is a sloppy ball of blankets dangling off the edge. What is the point in making it if I’m just going to mess it up again? I jump up on the bed, gazing into off white ceiling above me, glad that I have survived another day at school.

To my left is a white bookshelf that has five rows and almost stretches all the way to the ceiling. The books are arranged so that the ones I used to read as a kid, such as Aesop’s Fables, are on the bottom, and the books that I get today, such as academic textbooks, are on top. Looking at the shelf from bottom to top, one can take a journey through my life’s reading history. It seems as if the taller I grow, the taller my books begin to reach, as I would run out of space on one shelf and have to move up to the next one. As a child, the idea of having a special place to hold my books fueled my love for them. Even though I don’t have the time to read like I used to, I still find happiness in looking at the bookshelf and remember how much joy it used to bring me. Whenever I find myself bored, I always go to my bookshelf and pick out an old book that I used to read and reminisce about memories I had as a child wandering through its pages.

Across the room is a mahogany desk cluttered with unfinished homework assignments and school textbooks. The chair that belongs there is swiveled away from it. I never cared to put it back. Directly to the right of the desk is a nightstand with a myriad of trophies pristinely lined in rows on top of it. Although the rest of the room is chaotic, these trophies are ordered because of the passion I have towards them. The memories I get while looking at these awards make me nostalgic of all the tiring tennis matches and strenuous soccer games it took to win them.

On the right of the room is a poster of a confused monkey holding a banana gun. This poster does not have some elaborate backstory or a sentimental meaning to me, it was just something I bought on amazon for five dollars. Although it is just some random poster I found online, I still feel as if it accurately represents who I am. Often in my life I search for amusement whether it be in interacting with my friends or something as simple as picking a décor for my walls. Sometimes when I am stressed about school or my social life, I can look at the poster and it reminds me to always search for joy in even the hardest situations.

Laying down on my bed looking at my room, I find that the mess doesn’t bother me. It doesn't because for me this room will always be the place I can go when I am feeling desolate or down. For me this room will always be the place I grew up and tackled all the difficulties of childhood, such as my parents refusing to buy me a dog even after my persistent begging. It doesn’t matter if there are clothes on the floor, or if the bed is not made, or if there are cluttered papers on my desk. What matters is what I share with this every aspect of this room. I will always remember winning my first tennis trophy when I was eight and giving it a special place in its own little corner of the room. I remember when I first got my bookshelf and was so excited I had somewhere to store my books. Although most people enter my room and all they see is a mess, I can see more than that. This room is my retreat.

Chaman Kumar is from Terre Haute, Indiana. He is a Junior at Terre Haute South Vigo high school and enjoys playing tennis and soccer.

4

Concealed Disgrace For some, it’s a place to simulate death eight hours every day. To me, it’s a forbidden chamber where my discreet information will ever be discovered. A slight glance through the door of my room will be sufficient confirmation of its fundamental composition, since both its size and attribute are ordinary. Basic furniture are present, with the bed bearing the closest proximity to the door. No redundancies are visible in the mundane and stark room, which is organized impeccably by its owner. However, this superficial perfection discharges a slightly noticeable unpleasantness from within, and with each following step into the room, hints of my true self is gradually revealed.

While neatness is seemingly prevalent throughout the area, no intelligent individual would spend his night in the room. A dull gray covers the undecorated walls while a depressing emptiness floats in the stale air; nearly nothing lays on top of the brown furniture and the wooden floor is similarly vacant, giving the bedroom the quality of an extravagant prison cell. One would imagine the owner of this place to be competent in his own affairs, but lifeless in nature. That impression, however, will soon be altered with more exploration.

Further inspection of the surroundings will confuse any visitor. The initial view of the unexciting chamber produced a neutral impact, but the untidy cabinet contents will quickly shatter my adequate image. Clothes, books, and common supplies are properly stored in their respective containers, but zero order is maintained inside the cabinets. This ironic combination contains both idleness and diligence, reflecting a contradictory ambivalence. I keep all furniture orthodoxly arranged, yet mini pencil landfills elegantly fill the interiors. Another careful scan reveals that many wrinkled shirts are trapped underneath the neatly folded bed, which shows the owner’s emphasis on deceptive attraction rather than true beauty. In the end, my irresolute personality becomes evident. I’m not willing to preserve cleanliness, but also reluctant to leave a complete mess.

The most minor details also serve as valuable clues to my physical and mental nature. At first sight, the blue queen sized bed immediately indicates my average build while the casual t-shirts and shorts in the closet identify me as a teenager. A dusty black laptop sits on the desk, positioned right below a night lamp; furthermore, hidden inside a nearby drawer are modern electronic and entertainment devices in abundance. One will inevitably notice that four alarms rest above my bed, each of them displaying considerable damages and cracks caused by the inhabitant, who has seemingly, out of laziness, smashed the clocks as the alternative to waking up. The details regarding the desk leave behind a nerdy element that corresponds with the apparent shorttemperedness. Whoever lives here no longer seems efficient and tidy.

The initially dignified room turned out painfully boring, deceptively clean, and shamefully revealing. If one collects all the evidences above and attempts to construct a puzzle, his final product would be a sixteen year old, reclusive, high school student who hopes to achieve perfection in life, but instead is weighed down by his wavering determination. Despite this however, some order is still retained in his dull bedroom; some purpose still remains in his life.

Chen Li was born in Illinois and raised in China. He moved back to the US at the age of five and grew up in O’fallon, MO. He currently attends Thomas Jefferson School in St. Louis.

5

My Room Before you even enter my room you may be able to tell that I like to be noticed or recognized. Hanging on my door are two foam 3D letter d's: one for me and my sister. The brightness of the letter can make it seem as if my sister and I are actors behind stage.

Once inside my room, you will see mostly pink. It’s not my favorite color, but I've always had it since I was a kid. I find that the bright colors link my whole room, such as my curtains, bed sheets, carpet, and desk. The colors make my room so alive and give it a comfy feeling.

In the right comer of my room you would see my desk where my drawings, homework, late night assignments and projects are done. The top half of my desk is light grey with little black dots and the bottom is pink and holds a ton of stuff like an organized chaos. I have my rulers and staplers in a little bin and my pens in about every corner, if you're lucky to find one. Pocket-sized dictionaries are squished together like it's rush hour on a train. On the other side are my papers that have to be done the next day or so. In the left side of my desk are my folders of each class nearly folded on one another. This can describe my personality because it shows how I organize my priorities.

The top left half of my room consists of trophies and old Teddy Bears. Most of the trophies are from a program known as asphalt green where they teach different sports. Four of these trophies are from gymnastics class and two are from basketball. Even though I don't do these sports now, it shows that I like to try new things.

In my closet you can see my clothes neatly hung up until you reach the back where it's every clothes item for itself. Each hanger holding on for dear life so the clothes don't hit the floor full of loose shoes. At the top of that closet is a binder full of all my report cards since daycare. This part of my room expresses my improvement over time. Then, at the very end of my closet are photo albums of all the fun times I’ve had as a child, which show how much I have grown since then.

This.Is.Me

Debriana McRae 6

A Piece of Mimi From a bird’s eye view, the room looks like a thick right angle or the letter L; the thickest part of the room lies on longest side of the L. A soft light pink permeates the walls; the color resembles an almost white colored room because the pink is pale. Dangling from a wooden yellow pole, green drapes with white, swirly vines allow a slender trapezoid shaped light into the room. Matching patterned pillows lie on the queen sized bed under a pink bed spread. At the foot of the bed, a polka-dotted pink and green comforter from Neiman Marcus sits at the end of the bed folded over three times. All of the furniture pieces and items match a light pink, green, or yellow color scheme, but one item resists the pattern.

Tucked between a rectangular opening in the Italian, yellow desk, a sparkling silver jewelry box shimmers the name, “Emma Lou,” off the rounded lid in cursive writing. Black velvet floors the bottom half of the box. Two square openings on the left side are filled with bracelets. My favorite bracelets made of glass, metal, copper, or silver sit in the top left square while the bottom left corner holds bracelets made of rubber or string and beads—these, I made at camp. The larger square next to the two squares are designated for necklaces and watches; normally, the larger square remains full because I neglect to wear many of my necklaces and watches.

Lastly, a long, thin column houses seven rings which I no longer wear due to a ring mishap—I accidentally placed the ring on my middle finger instead of my pointer finger. Although the box looks out of place, the box holds the most permanent residence in the bedroom.

Unlike my past jewelry boxes, the silver jewelry box feels royal. The appearance and the box’s purpose, slightly, factors into the box’s sense of royalty, but the box, truthfully, emits royalty due to the person who bestowed the gift upon me for my thirteenth birthday. My grandmother—or as I liked to call Mimi—was one of my biggest role models because she battled stage four cancer for two years while many doctors shared she would last for only six months.

To me, the box is symbolic of Mimi because the box is a beautiful, strong silver box. Similar to many diseases, cancer physically shows symptoms. I watched my grandmother’s fit body wither away as her immune system relentlessly dwindled, and I witnessed her short curled, bleached blonde hair fade to a white and vanish from her scalp. At first, she felt ashamed of her new complexion, but then she embraced her shiny head and began wearing jewelry to look unique. Mimi never needed the jewelry because she was a pretty grandmother despite her bald head and wrinkles, but the jewelry she bared gave her a stronger attitude which impacted my thoughts on the jewelry box. I like to think that the significance of the jewelry box was meant to be revealed through Mimi’s struggle to find beauty; whenever I see the box, I think of my strong, beautiful grandmother.

Emma Tillmanns is from Memphis, Tennessee. She attends Hutchison School, a college preparatory school for girls.

She is a rising junior who enjoys writing, drawing, serving the community, and playing soccer and lacrosse.

7

Excerpt from Posters, Paintings, and Window Panes I lose everything. Part of the reason is my inability to keep track of anything outside of my range of eyesight, but part of it can be attributed to the fact that I live in three different rooms. My homes – New York City, Essex, and Watertown – each demonstrate different facets of my personality that together, form a mélange of different characteristics, influences, and situations.

New York City can be a hectic place, so the cool, calming blue and white color scheme of my bedroom is an oasis. After a long day of scurrying through the streets of Manhattan like a mouse weaving through a maze, it’s comforting to come back to my quiet sanctuary, where I can gaze down upon the streets and get a new perspective. Just outside the wall-to-wall windows, a small, slightly stunted honey locust tree sways invitingly, dappling the sunlight and tinting it faintly green. Suddenly, I don’t feel so boxed in anymore – there is space to breathe. The periwinkle ceiling seems to float high above my bed, reflecting the tiny light blue flowers embroidered onto the white duvet. All of the furniture is white: the desk, bedframe, bookshelves, even the laundry hamper. Surprisingly, the bare walls, instead of seeming empty and inhospitable, actually emphasize the only ornament: my aunt’s beautiful oil pastel of the New Mexico desert. With its thin, inconspicuous pine frame, the rolling magenta dunes, kelly-green shrubbery, and cerulean sky seem even more vivid and alive.

I love the energy of New York, but there is a fine line between exciting and chaotic. During the summer, the coal-black asphalt gives off a vaguely nauseating heat, and in the winter, as soon as the fresh white snow brushes the ground, it is trampled by dirty car wheels and ground into the rest of the grey slush. When I come back from quiet Watertown, I find it extremely difficult to fall asleep that first night, as I am reminded of just how loud the city can be. Drivers honk at each other, shouting profanities through the thick, muggy night air and unzipping their windows to make rude gestures; strange men walk down the sidewalks at three o’clock in the morning with boom boxes on their shoulders, their music turned up so loud that the bass shakes my windows.

Sirens blare as ambulances race down the major Avenues from Mt. Sinai Hospital down the street, where I was born. I grew up here, yet one of the consequences of living in many different places is that everything seems unfamiliar – my books are organized oddly, I can never find the right clothes, and my alarm clock is always set to the wrong time.

Yet my time in New York doesn’t only consist of feeling out of place. Our apartment is located in Carnegie Hill, one of the highest points in Manhattan, so when it rains, it is a purifying experience. The fierce New York rainstorms deposit thousands of tons of freshwater onto the hot, polluted pavement that wash down, away from its inhabitants and into the rivers, taking with it all of the festering uncleanliness and leaving behind glistening pavement, stoplights, and mailboxes.

Eve Inglis is from New York City. She loves to read fictional murder mysteries, to row, and to ski. She is happiest when curled up with a blanket, a cup of hot chocolate, and a guitar, or when at the highest point of a mountain with a spectacular view.

8

The Looking Glass The centerpiece of my room is a quaint, rusted, and extremely large mirror I helped my mom haul home from a neighbor's yard sale a couple years back. She is never one to pass up a good deal. At first the idea of a mirror was foreign, an invasion into my private space, my sanctuary from the world. After a while, it grew on me, and I started appreciating the battered looking glass. But then I grew on it, one day noticing I was decapitated in it as I did up the buttons on my shirt. I could no longer see my face without stooping. Now when I use the hallway bathroom mirror to inspect my face and sometimes just stare at myself reflecting because I can, I catch myself feeling guilty about no longer using my mirror. I had spent too long with it, had too many memories of getting ready for firsts in it, to simply get rid of it.

In the mirror you can see the bookshelves sloppily bolted to the wall by me and my parents when I was ten draw the eye with their sheer volume. They practically bulge outwards, staring me in the face as I’m my bed, and overshadowing the oaken writing desk below it. As with so many, high school descended upon me bringing with it more social commitments, more schoolwork, and more of everything; I am no longer the ravenous little reader I once was.

Now a thick layer of dust has descended, marring all the tomes except a select favorite that I pull off the shelves every once in a while for old time's sake. Most notable for me are the Roald Dahl books, which, no matter what mood I’m in, always hold appeal. Even though many are for small children I appreciate his beautiful writing style, and outrageously imaginative characters.

In the top back corner of my closet, invisible to anyone but my mind, are the cards that some would say defined a generation. Boxes or more specifically tins as they were marketed full of the cards are stacked one on top of another, creating a collection I remain proud of to this day. I refer to the infamous Pokémon franchise. As a kid I was instantly attracted to the creative colorful designs, and the competitive aspect of the game, but it was the trading part that interested me most. Wheeling and dealing like a New York broker on the now defunct New York stock exchange, I could trade the pants off anyone, offering combo deals more confusing than modern day phone plan packages. As I grew older I progressed to online games like Realm of The Mad God, finding equal success in being able to convince people to part with their electronic items in a way that always seemed to benefit me. I have since then credited this cutthroat business spirit, an attribute not always considered favorable, to this hobby and have always chased the high of making a particularly fantastic deal just like my mom.

Finally, this brings us to the nature corner. As a kid (and still as a teenager) I loved the outdoors, forever going out on hikes into the great Virginia wilds, tramping through the woods with my dad just checking out life and appreciating what it has to offer. As I am a slight hoarder, the so-called trophies I identified on my adventures were hauled home and stowed away to admire. A pretty rock. A pearly jawbone from a deer. A lead fishermen's weight whose symmetrical form and density had captivated me. I stowed these away quickly compiling quite the collection. Of course, as I grew older and less attached to much of the junk I had brought back I pitched what I no longer wanted and kept a few precious keepsakes. Namely a piece of shale me and my dad had scratched our names onto with a piece of charcoal we found, and a small utility knife some unfortunate hiker had lost that I had used for various tasks over the years. These two objects now make up the only nook of my shelves unoccupied by books, a reminder of my origins and my personality.

Considering all the time I have spent looking at myself in that mirror, and how looking inside it one can see my personality and childhood summed up in it’s reflection, maybe it is time to move it higher for daily use once again.

Jack Kelly is from McLean, Virginia. He goes to Langley Highschool, where he is a sophomore. He enjoys gaming, reading, and biking.

9

Striving for Success They say “Never judge a book by its cover,” but who would have thought this little blue book with a black-and-white photograph of five little girls and their parents, would be the reason for me joining an Academic Writing program at Washington University? No, it wasn’t my mother, my teacher or even someone I knew—it was the words of Dr. Yvonne Thornton and Jo Coudert that inspired me to do more, to challenge myself. The DitchDigger’s Daughters alone transformed my outlook on many aspects of life.

Starting out as a reading assignment from my Project ACEe program at Virginia Commonwealth University, this compelling novel was set in the 1940’s as a father battled to raise his daughters in a time where all odds were placed against them. Even then, he had the high hopes of them all becoming doctors. This story was unlike the typical success story; it was one that involved the barriers of which both the sisters and their father had to overcome. This family was African American in a time where segregation was legal, which resulted in them being looked down upon by society. The struggles, the strong will, and the determination of a man who desired more for his children was evident throughout the story.

Although other success stories contain many of these qualities, the fact that the story also mentioned the complexities of being a black woman in that time resonated with me more than anything. While growing up, aside from being black, Dr. Thornton and her sisters had to face the “hardship” of being a dark-skinned female.

Her father once said “You’re dark-skinned and ugly,” and “No man’s gonna come along and offer to take care of you because you ain’t light-skinned. That’s why you gotta be able to look after yourselves. And, for that, you gotta be smart.” Although I am not dark-skinned, this quote spoke to me about not wanting to rely on anyone when I am older; I want to be able to take care of myself and, as Mr. Thornton said, this requires intelligence.

This inspired me to never take advantage of my education.

While Dr. Yvonne Thornton overcame the hardships of being a dark-skinned female by receiving an education, she continued to face discrimination in her career while working for the Navy as an OBGYN. She described how the overseeing physician treated her differently from her male co-workers and even hinted at the fact that she didn’t belong. Prior to reading the book, I never thought being a woman would have caused such a controversy when discussing their roles in the workplace. Details such as females receiving lower pay and the beliefs that women don’t have the same abilities as men in the jobs they were trained equally for surprised me the most.

Although much time has passed, three decades to be exact, women in today’s society still feel as though they are discriminated against according to a study by Bryce Covert, in 2013 he states that “30 percent of women felt they were being discriminated against in the workplace”.[1] The book emphasizes the belief that “It’s a man’s world” and because of this, women have to work twice as hard. In the book, the sisters did this by only bringing home A’s and playing in the family band, The Thornton Sister, to support both the household and their college tuition. Had it not been for that message in the book, the thought of this happening to me when entering the work field wouldn’t have crossed my mind until much later in life.

I have taken so many opportunities for granted by allowing them to slip through the cracks, whether it be not working hard to bring up my grade in Geometry or not joining a summer program because I didn’t feel like filling out the application. It happened because of my ignorance to the fact that success does not come easy to many, especially African American women. As a result of the racial stereotypes, of our supposed “inferiority” to men, and the stigma of growing up in single-parent home, I am expected by society to fail. However, I refuse to let any of these be the reason I’m not successful in my career-- or in anything for that matter. My first step in ensuring that does not happen, was to confront my weaknesses, one of which is writing.

A book is like a lesson in school; no matter the genre there is always something to take away from it. Each book has a purpose worth exploring but one must find it, with this book it was pretty evident what Dr. Thornton wanted us to know and that was that, no matter the situation, or the barriers, one can still be successful in fulfilling their goals. As a reader, I experience books on an emotional level--I like to feel what I am reading and become absorbed in it; even when I’m done with it, I always carry a piece of it with me.

Jayqua Williams is from Richmond, Virginia. She attends Thomas Jefferson High school where she is a rising International Baccalaureate senior. She enjoys reading, writing, and running with her cross country team.

10

Gateway to Heaven I turn the bronze doorknob and push inward. A cold breeze is suspended in the air, despite rays of sunlight streaming through the window opposite the door, bathing the white walls. Taking a look around, I notice all my items perfectly arranged or sorted. My royal blue covers are folded neatly in halves, lying on a corner of my tan-colored bed sheets. The ancient, worn bookshelf holds a variety of books and series over a multitude of genres. All of my other furniture is also blue, save for a black, glass desk.

My nightstand occupies a position exactly 6 inches from my headboard; this creates a sizeable slot where I can arrange my binders and textbooks that I require to complete the homework for that night. A digital clock and a 2-foot metal lamp peacefully coincide on the smooth, mahogany surface. A stack of TIME magazines also rest atop my nightstand.

As I shift my eyes to the bed, I notice the two fluffy white pillows. They look so cushiony and comfortable that I can almost feel the softness without touching them. Above the pillows, two of my companions, a husky and a beagle, lay prone staring at me. On the east wall, two beautiful watercolor paintings, hinged together along the wall, depict the same forest in spring and autumm. At the foot of my bed sits my dresser. Lining the top are dozens of trophies, all shapes and sizes. Memories of long nights and intense hours of concentration rush back to me as I think about them. Earned from hard work and perseverance, these chess, piano, and tennis awards are a staple to my spotless room.

Below the window on the north wall lies my steel and glass-surfaced computer desk. An HP Probook sits on the table, humming quietly. My impressive array of mechanical pencils and pens all line up accordingly.

Two massive stacks of books rest next to them; one pile dedicated to AP testing and the other to standardized testing. In the filing cabinets attached to the desk, separators arrange all of my previous schoolwork dating back to middle school into easy-to-access patterns.

Finally, the west wall is the home to my closet. Along the two sliding doors are a variety of posters from elementary and middle school book-fairs. Ranging from Star Wars to Spyders, my (small) collection reminds me of how much I’ve changed. My browned bookshelf takes up an entire side of the closet, containing many wellrenowned series today: Harry Potter, Inheritance, Heroes of Olympus, Divergent, and Maximum Ride. Individual books also litter the shelves.

My room is a wonderful island separate of time and space. Whenever I stride through the white, wooden doors, I can escape the stress of work and school and engross myself in an enjoyable book. No matter the situation, I know I have a safe haven to retreat to. Ever since I moved into this room in Oakwood Farms, a unique atmosphere has developed and grown around me, constantly shifting and molding to fit my needs. My young years of life are inexplicability connected to the room, a fraction of my personality framed within; the appearance of my cave speaking words for me.

Michael Yin is 16 years old and reside in Ballwin, Missouri. He enjoys sketching, playing sports, reading, and listening to/creating music.

11

The Trophy Silence pushed up against the airtight room and its sky blue walls as a teenage girl sat at her long, darkbrown wooden desk, hunched over, scribbling away furiously. Every ten seconds, a thick strand of her short black hair would fall in front of her face, but she continued, eyebrows furrowed and lips bitten as her back muscles seemed to cramp together with each passing second. Her silver alarm clock, located in front of her worndown paper, ticked -- the sound ringing in her ears and releasing even more anxiety into the packed air.

Suddenly, she stopped. Everything seemed to freeze.

Tick-tock tick-tock! Reality shattered the girl's short-lived bliss as her eyes snapped back to the paper in front of her. The paper had begun to coil and had turned a dark gray due to the obnoxiously long lists of wellknown diseases -- she still had 50 more to memorize. Burdened by the heavy weight on her shoulders, her eyes wandered around the room, desperate for some comfort. Sighing, she looked to her small twin bed eight inches to her left. The fluffy light blue blanket, decorated in flowers of Carolina blue, festive green, and dark lavender, was neatly straightened out to the point where not even a single wrinkle was to be seen; yet to the girl, its perfect composure seemed so tempting to rest in. The bed, silently awaiting for its master's decision, lied vertically against the wall-- an alligator eyeing its prey.

Breaking out of her trance, the girl quickly turned her head to where her latte-brown bookshelf was tucked away in the corner, but still close enough so that she could reach out and touch it. Although it seemed as if it were sinking to the ground from the overbearing weight of all its books, the bookshelf pleased the girl, for it was so efficiently organized. The bottom shelf had her large Winnie-the-Pooh photo album looming over the Fiske College Guide and ACT prep books that lied next it, while the colorful shelf above contained multiple indigo, grassy green, and red book covers of AP books, all arranged by class. The top two book shelves- above these studious ones- were more light-hearted. They were filled with a variety of books ranging from the dystopian Hunger Games and adventurous Percy Jackson series to heart-wrenching To Kill A Mockingbird and the tragic Tale of Two Cities. However, the tall, shimmering gold trophy that stood proudly on the very top of her bookshelf was most eye-catching to her than anything else. Though seeming out of place next to the voluminous stack of weathered New York Times, it provided the most delight.

The trophy brought back memories of beads of sweat running down her flushed face due to the stuffy, humid air of the science office, as well as the endless long nights spent memorizing and solving disease cases.

The last year had required a lot of work. Nonetheless, the girl smiled to herself as recollections of some teammates hollering, hooting, and whooping in the large auditorium, while others jumping up, abandoning their luxurious red cushioned seats, to do a celebratory dance, also flooded her mind. The girl laughed softly. Immediately, everything menacing that had plagued her mind seemed to disappear-- the silence, the anxiety, and the strain of the girl's back. Out of all the things in her room, the most important was the state Science Olympiad trophy that she had won with her teammates--the representation of hard work leading to success. She had finally found it-- her motivation, the fire that would continue to ignite the magical coal to move the train forward.

Stephanie Kang is from Columbia, Missouri. She is a rising senior, who is currently attending Rock Bridge High School. Besides reading in her free time, she loves spending time with friends and family. If she could have any superpower, she would want the power of mind-reading.

12

My Double Personality If you were to walk into my room, your eyes would meet the walls stained with the color of a rose. Pictures of five baby girls stare back at you surrounding a picture of my parents. There are many more pictures of us at different moments, but these are the only ones when we were around two years old: an image of my older sister, Jennifer, with big, puffy cheeks looking away from the camera; Lesly, smiling while she's sleeping; Yarethzy with red bloodshot eyes and tears rolling down her cheeks; and the youngest, Ashly, is on a plastic red truck smiling.

And then, there's me in a diaper, standing next to a small shelf. The picture of my parents animated into a wine glass is at the center where they are holding hands and looking at each other. I cherish the memories that I have with my family, whether they are the worst moments or the extraordinary ones. They are all unforgettable. Every time I wake up, I look at the pictures and they allow me to reminisce from when we were all little to how we have each grown to be the person we are today. They remind me of my parents' hard work to get us a fair education.

Because of the struggles we face financially, I cherish my academic experiences. Graduation balloons that make my family proud are taped on the wall and honor roll certificates with my name elegantly typed on them hang nearby. The white, silky cap and gown hang near my closet, and ribbons from my Math Team competitions hang on my mirror. My parents have worked hard to give me an education, and they support me in all my activities.

I enjoy doing activities even though I'm not very good at them. Different types of sports balls roll around that my dad had to keep buying every time one had a hole in it. A soccer ball with dirt from the last time my family and I went to the park. A volleyball with little holes in the foam from playing, using our gate as the net. A basketball looking brand new since we actually try to save this one from damage. Lastly, a Frisbee broken from one side when I last played with my friends-- no worries, it still works. Even though I truly enjoy sports, I am still fond of feminine things. Porcelain dolls given to me by aunts and uncles on special occasions stand on a shelf. I'm older now, but my tenderness towards the dolls prevents me from throwing or giving them away. Nail polish aligned like soldiers going to war, perfumes of different colors and sizes, lotions with varying aromas, and a small clock with mirrors around it are on a small shelf that stands next to my bed.

But the bed itself? A mess. Not like a stereotypical girl would have it. I'm always moving around and trying to be active. The pillow is where my feet should go. And it all stays like that. Unless there's company of course! I can be really unorganized sometimes, but I can also be the opposite. Girly or tomboy? I'm in between.

Vanessa Lopez is from Chicago, Illinois and goes to Pritzker College Prep High School. She is a rising junior and enjoys writing, reading, and drawing.

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Who I Am and Why One would open my room door and find overused crème colored walls and a bed pushed to the corner.

It’s ordinary to the normal eye, but to me, it’s planned. I strategically placed the bed in the corner closest to the window for amazing natural light for early days of reading the Legend series and coffee or an unplanned selfietaking session. The bed sheets can make one forget about the dark clothing in my closet—bright and welcoming with vibrant blue and green leaves against a white backdrop. The walls that meet in the middle are filled with embarrassing One Direction posters that are from one of their first photo shoots and posters of my favorite wrestlers ripped from the middle of the WWE Magazine.

The tall dresser to the right of my bed is cluttered with different memories like old first place bowling trophies that no longer hold meaning to me, but I keep anyway for the sake of saying I did something with three summers about five years ago. Starbuck’s bags sit on top, filled with different cards from birthdays or Valentine’s Day. A box, holding my complete Toby Maguire and Andrew Garfield Spider-Man movies along with my many CD’s ranging from Sleeping with Sirens to all four of Demi Lovato’s albums, sits upon the mess as an invitation into my interests.

My other dresser is to the left of the door. It sits filled with lots of books that I’ve read over the span of two years since I have no room for an actual bookshelf. The books are stacked neatly upon each other with their spines out, allowing anyone to read their title. School books sit front and center with summer due dates scribbled on Post-It notes sticking out of the pages. Countless bottles of Bath and Body Works perfume and cream recall the many trips to the mall with my oldest best friend, Alyssa. On my mirror are movie and airplane tickets, recounting the day I met one of my “internet” friends unexpectedly on a choir competition trip. Other pictures of close friends and my two older brothers are taped to the mirror for memorable decoration.

If one were to walk into my closet, she’d see clothes organized by color scheme, although most are extremely dark or band t-shirts that represent many hours in Hot Topic. My khaki and polo school uniform is pushed to the back for the first summer, since this year I decided not to do any summer classes. The closet floor is home to my Doc Marten’s and Vans shoe boxes, along with my school flats and many different type of backpacks.

Coming into my room, you see the many different stages of my life. Some of them are better than others, but all make me who I am, and that’s why I keep everything up. From embarrassing photos of my friends and I stuffed in a movie theatre photo booth to drawers filled with certificates reading “Honor Roll” student, they’re all me.

Veronica De La Mora is from Chicago, Illinois. She is a rising junior at Pritzker College Prep. She enjoys writing, reading, and performing.

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Pictures Taking A bedroom, one’s most intimate and private living space, usually houses the owner’s most valuable belongings and can hide the darkest secrets. Naturally, as one grows up and changes, so do their likes and dislikes.

The abundance of childhood memorabilia and awards that once drowned my room along with my old Casio keyboard—which I only used in the very early stages of my piano career—have made its way into the garage.

Throughout all of the phases my room and I have endured—a hyper-feminine floral phase as well as a “dark colors” only phase—only one aspect has stayed the same. The only constant of my room is my wall of pictures.

Entering, your eyes would wander between the organized bookshelf, my simplistic bed, and the random decorations I have laid around my room; however, the most eye-catching area of my room is the wall concealed by layers upon layers of pictures. I remember when a friend asked me what inspired me to continue the creation of a wall plastered by depictions of my past. Until that point, I never contemplated why I unremittingly continued such a tedious task; however, after some thought, I realized that I was emotionally attached to the idea of possessing my own “memory lane.”

Constantly around parents who photographed and recorded even the most mundane moments—such as meals and bedtime—has inspired to do the same. What started out as a fun mother-daughter activity has evolved into a meaningful tradition. Many Friday nights were spent printing my favorite pictures and thumbtacking them onto the eggshell colored wall. The glowing yellow Christmas lights carelessly draped off the wall resemble that of a halo, illuminating the boundless collection of images lazily tacked onto the wall.

Every photograph brings back valuable memories: whether it be my first baby picture, my first day at kindergarten or important family outings. Although all pictures reserve a special place in my heart, one stands out the most. Maybe it is because of its large size compared to the others, or maybe because it is centered closely to the middle. Whatever the reason, this particular picture stands out more than ones of family trips to China and birthday pictures. It is the simplistic image of my four best friends and me sitting on an outdoor patio the last night in California. June 16, 2013, I said my last goodbyes to some of my closest friends. This picture perfectly represents that bittersweet night. Whenever we spent time together, we would always claim that it would be the best day/night ever—this night included. Although we treated this night just like every other night, the thought that this was possibly as the last night we would be able to hang out as a group was engraved into the back of our minds.

The wall of pictures represent my life as a whole as it contains pieces of all stages of my life. By glancing at the wall, you will be able to see an overview of my entire life; however, when focusing more on the pictures itself, you can focus on the details much like a camera lens. My room has grown up along with me. My room is my safe haven.

This is written by Vicky Tan who is from Seattle, Washington.

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Singularly My room is not what I would describe as “white and bare”, but rather “structure-less and fluid”. When a guest walks into my living space for the first time, they usually comment on how bare it is. White walls, dark cherry wood floors, queen-sized bed and bedside table. There are no medallions, no framed photos of beloved family members, teammates, inspiration quotes or paintings. I can almost hear them thinking why is her room so boring? Or does this girl have any interests?

From a very young age, my mother and I would often argue about my space. I wanted blue walls one day, black the next. My mother, with my best interests in mind, would remind me on how absurd the idea was and subsequently suggest me to add more feminine colors such as a rose petal pink or to hang some watercolor painting she deemed appropriate for me. I was so averse to the idea of my untainted enclosure being transformed into a girly mad house, I decided to keep it white.

For years, I hated my cubicle. Whenever I was faced with the question of why my room was so bare, I would simply respond with an “I don’t know” or “It just is”. I tended to avoid my bare, blank palisade and empty floors that stared back at me. My faultless friends who complained about their messy floors, strewn with old clothing, evoked a certain sense of jealousy from me. Why couldn’t I also feel comfortable in my supposed haven? It was like they had their own best friend, one who housed them and comforted them and literally, took all of their trash.

It wasn’t until many years passed, until adolescence was reached, that I began to accept the constant clean and sterile state that my territory used to stagnate in. Perhaps, practical judgement came with age. On certain days, the quarter’s blank, hospital white began to feel almost like an artfully designed minimalism. Other days, the ramparts of my haven began to emulate the cathartic aura of oceanic, white granite spas. The bareness of my walls transformed into fertile soil for whatever my imagination could think of—white Italian brick, flawless marble from the Taj Mahal, or white chrysanthemums.

There was a certain kind of solace in the cleanliness of my room, in comparison to the urban concrete that baked the outside world. No anxious honking of cars or slapping of wheels against parched pavement could be heard from inside my white garden. The only thing from the outside world that filtered into my space was the mellow morning sunlight that stretched between the window blinds. I could escape the outside delirium of business by simply walking through a doorway into my new dimension called home.

I appreciated the clean smell of fresh laundered blankets and bedsheets and no longer mourned the company of pungent socks and worn clothing. My pictured memories of instants in time with my friends and family remain privately stowed away, away from prying public eyes. My valley alone is my solace, in not just one way where it remains statically formed with medals, posters and photos on the walls. It is a fluent and permeable white, rich in color and form.

Yiyi Ma is from Springfield, Illinois. She will be attending Glenwood High School as a senior in the fall. She enjoys running, drawing, and sleeping.

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A Journey From a young age, I have prided myself on being a reader. At eight years old, I grainily remember the first few pages of Brian Jacques's Redwall. A book which I only began to read at the insistence of my parents that our expedition to Australia could not consist entirely of daytime television and handheld video games. It was the first few pages of that book, a story about anthropomorphic animals, which set me on a path of actually enjoying and seeking out literature. At the peak of my consumption, somewhere in middle school, I would read perhaps two books a week, working my way rapidly through the Rangers Apprentice and Deltora Quest series among others. Of course, times change, as do priorities, and over time that number has dwindled. However, I do not read less now I just read differently. Instead of books I consume thousands and thousands of words in online forums, short stories, testimonials, blog posts, articles, and other textual bits of entertainment scattered across the vast reaches of the web. Nevertheless, it was print books that defined my reading for many of my formative years.

I was in 3rd grade when I took my next step, with Catherine Jinks’ Evil Genius. With Redwall I enjoyed the legendary stories and world that Jacques had created but, I didn’t find an anthropomorphic mouse, however heroic, particularly relatable. With Cadel Piggott, the prodigal hacker protagonist of Evil Genius, however, I found a connection that I hadn’t felt with a character before. On a personal level, the character Catherine Jinks created seemed alive, not just a two-dimensional symbol but an actual living, breathing person. It was this that inspired not only more reading but also a greater attachment to characters, instead of stories of great heroes I sought out stories of people. This interest would be reflected later in life during freshman year with the reading of both Night and Black Boy, which both featured compelling, though ultimately flawed, characters. In Night Elie Wiesel fights to survive the Holocaust with his father, coming out both changed and scarred. In Black Boy Richard Wright endures the American South during the era of Jim Crow, having to change to survive. It is with the characters in these books that I began to learn meaningful lessons in regards to my character. I grew to understand truly that people, including myself, are malleable and can be worn and changed by their environments on an intellectual level as well as a physical level.

It was, the summer of 6th grade that I first read Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card; it has become the only book I’ve read over five times. Ender’s Game combined a character that seemed human with a fantastical, seemingly unending world to explore. It was with this book that I found myself able to entrench deeply into the world, not just the character, and imagine myself as even part of the story. The book raised me from a bystander observing the story into a participant in the imaginative world; what if I was Ender? What would I do?

About six months ago came the realization that a good sci-fi novel can be more than just jaunts into fantasy; it can be an exploration of reality. A short science fiction story I am fond of is A Pail of Air, which was written by Fritz Leiber in 1951. This story explores an alternate reality in which Earth has been torn asunder from the Sun’s orbit thus becoming a rogue planet and freezing over. This story is special to me because it was the first professional short story I had read online. But, more significantly it was the first sci-fi story that I had read which endeavored to use scientific logic, as opposed to fantasy, to establish the world. Leiber inspired my reading for quite some time; where previously I had read fantasy, now I read science fiction.

These books in many ways developed me as a person. When I began to read I was an immature kid enamored with the idea of the adventure held within the pages, then beginning grow to love the characters, to soon dreaming of being one of the characters, and now books fiction or otherwise enlighten me to the great could be of myself and the world. Books have fueled the furnaces of my imagination from the tentative start of my first paperback, they have been the chisels to my stone, and now I can’t imagine life without those memories and dreams being a part of me.

Zachary Sorensen was born in New York City, raised in Hanover, New Hampshire, and then moved to Clayton, Missouri. He is currently attending school at Clayton High School and will be going into junior year. He enjoys reading, writing, and video gaming.

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Communications Institute

18

The Perspective Behind the Art The Kemper art museum is a great museum located on the Washington University of St. Louis campus directly across from the campus’s art school. This art museum contains three floors that are packed with different types of art styles and medias.

The Kemper art museum is a museum that is home to the art of professional artists. But, they also display the art of the students that are attending the Washington University in St. Louis across the road. The fact that they do this shows us that they are supportive the the community that they are in and that they also understand and appreciate the work and creativity behind the art, instead of looking and the name and fame of the artists.

The art museum had many creative pieces of art that stand out and are noticeably significant. There are some pieces of artwork that are sort of disturbing in the opinion of many people who viewed the art. One of the disturbing images depicts a woman surrounded by what looks to be nuns, and throwing up long, thick layers of hair. The point of this piece of art being described is that it shows that anything and everything can be considered art if you take the chance to take a look at it in different perspectives and point of views. For this perspective, someone might see this as a sort of punishment for a sin, or as a sign of impurity, while other might see this as a consequence of karma.

Perspective is all in the eye of the beholder, which is why it is so great. No two people can have exactly the same perspective, they are always changing depending on the person and their imagination. An example of this is that if there is a painting of a black background with a white rose in the middle, some might interpret the picture as pop art, while others might see it as a sign of purity. The point is that meaning behind a piece of art really depends on how the person sees the artwork.

For me an image of importance was the painting in the top floor gallery called “Choke” which was created by Robert Rauschenberg. This piece of artwork depicts the transition between the periods of America and American objects of significance post-World War II while using the Abstract Expressionist painting style and technique and adding the development of Pop Art which was starting to become more popular and well know, mainly during the 1960s.

This image holds importance because it uses mix media of stylistic choice and it is bold. With the use of bold colors and swift brush strokes, we can see the though and precision that went into creating this piece of art.

We can see the emotion and thought that went into each brush stroke to make the painting stand out and come to life. We can see how, even thinking about the situation or what is being shown, how serious the situation being depicted is. Through the colors and the brush strokes we can determine the artists perspective on what they are painting. Also, the title that the artist decides to name his artwork helps us to understand the artists state if mind, and helps is to gain certain perspectives.

For example, in the painting “Choke” by Robert Rauschenberg we can understand that the artist might be trying to express how all of the different images that are depicted could overwhelm or choke a person. Or we can assume that all of images are memories that are rushing forward in a person’s mind and choking them with things that they don’t want to relive or remember. Being able to understand and interpret the view point of an artist in a title or even a single word can be very difficult. Which is why, often times, people have a hard time understanding the significance or meaning behind a piece of art unless it is explained for them on the title card.

In the more recent years, our generation of children have lost, almost complete interest in going to museums, more specifically they lost interest in going to art museums. History museums have been able to stay more interesting and more captivating because you can have videos, small activities, thing to physically hold and see on your hand while being told exactly what they are, and you can have people doing small portions of skits reenacting out a certain time period or event that occurred. Where as in an art museum you have to use your 19

imagination to assume and discover what the image or artist is trying to reveal. Plus, with modern technology, it is easy to have access to multiple different types of artworks. Also, many museums, now have virtual tours of their museums.

Most people don’t fully understand or realize the difference between what a painting looks like online, and what it looks like in person. Looking at a piece of art in person is much better than looking at it online, because when you see the artwork in person you are able to see the small details that are so obscure, that without being able to view it from up close would make it nearly impossible to catch. The smaller details usually can’t be translated into an online format, yet it is preferable then going to see the art in person. Art is something that is always changing and ever evolving. No two pieces of artwork are exactly the same, there will always be something, even if it seems insignificant, that is different.

Each piece of artwork is its own unique thing. It has its own significance and can stand out on its own from the simple and bold aspects of it. It takes courage to paint and to put your ideas and creativity out into the world to be judged. But it takes even more courage to chose being an artist as a career because of how difficult it is to make into the art world. Being able to make it as an artist usually requires having something in your painting that other artists haven’t thought of doing. You have to create and master your own style, then put your work out there to be judged. The Kemper Art Museum helps to encourage young artists and students to be confident in their work, but to also think outside the box.

Having the kind of support that the art program and the Kemper Art Museum provides at such a young age is something unique and helps to further progress the students work in the art world. But it also helps them to learn how to further progress and learn how to express what they are trying to convey in their art, which is the most important aspect of art.

“Choke” By: Robert Rauschenberg

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Perspective: Soldier inside medic helicopter He sits in the helicopter suffering, An American Soldier, injured, being rushed to the hospital, A New York man, Memories rushing forward, Life flashing before his eyes, The blackness of death starting to take over, Memories merging and clashing, Then forgotten completely, Captured and stolen away by the death creeping in, Time running out, The lightness that fights is fading away, The blackness is winning, Once death hold on it never let’s go, Death is a one-way street, There is no coming back.

Significance to Feature Piece: The significance of this page to the feature piece is that this piece of artwork is in the museum, and this is an activity we did in the museum and a perspective that can come from the views of the viewers.

The two mass media’s that I would use to put the information about the art museum out there is through a slide show and a blog. The writing styles would change because for slide show I would only use captions instead of actually writing out an explanation or description. But, for the blog, I would write using a lot of my own personal voice, because the blog is from my perspective of the museum and what I chose to share about it.

Blog: For the blog I would go into detail about the different exhibits in the museum. I would talk about the multiple medias that the museum is able to cater to. Then I would go into a discussion about the different medias that are used for the multiple art pieces. After all of that I would discuss the difference between the modern art, and the more traditional style of art. The last thing that I would add to the blog would be to do profiles on some of my favorite pieces of art. To do that I would show a picture or a video for the piece of art, depending on what is required, then I would have a small summary about the pieces of art that I found to be the most significant or interesting and then I would write about what my perspective on the artwork is.

Slideshow: For the slideshow I would have around 25-30 pictures in total. But, for each slide there would be different angles and shots for each piece of artwork that I would chose to display. With the slide show, there would also be a small description of the artwork, and a caption for the artwork, which I would create and attach. Along with this slideshow would be a small history of the author and a description about the time period the artwork was created in. to get this slide show out there I would submit it to the museum’s website and see if they would like to post it as an intriguing thing to get people to go to the museum, or a virtual tour to get people interested in the artwork and want to know more.

Anastasia Boulos is from Ferndale, Washington. She goes to St. Paul's Academy, where she is a rising Junior. She enjoys art, music, and writing in her free time, and is an avid reader.

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Sparking Your Interest with Nicholas Sparks All hopeless romantics have the tendency to gravitate towards the section where Nicholas Sparks love stories are sold in the bookstore. His writing’s victims experience side-effects including but not limited to: racing heart beat, widened smiles, and the most notorious, tears. With news erupting that Nicholas Sparks is about to release a motion picture in 2016 to partner with his 2007 novel The Choice, fans’ excitement has been peaking to new heights. This past year has been an interesting one for Sparks as he went through an unexpected divorce with his wife, Cathy, and released two box office hits, “The Best of Me” and “The Longest Ride.” After interviewing this talented novelist, we were able to gain some insight into questions including what inspired him to write, how he views literature versus media, and what his future holds in his renown writing career. Toss a token into the fountain of love and information to find out what all the hype is about.

At Bear Towne Java Coffeehouse in his neighborhood of New Bern, North Carolina, Sparks, in Sunday jeans and a button down plaid shirt, leisurely sat down and gave a chuckle. How is that smoothie supposed to keep your eyes open through this interview? After seeing his double-shot of Espresso it became clear to how he stays awake to write such compelling love stories. Sparks claims that with his feet perched on his desk and his T.V. flipped to a Seinfeld or Cheers rerun, he meets his 2,000 word goal everyday (this means approximately two series per novel).

While many might think that calling yourself a writer involves hiding out in a small musty room all day, Sparks begs to differ.

Sparks states that a lot of his inspiration for writing can be tied to his other passion, running. “What running taught me more than anything is perseverance and giving your best in hopes of doing something extraordinary.

With no guarantees. That sums up writing to me.”

Aside from dreaming up book ideas on his daily four-mile run, Sparks explains that many of his ideas are, in fact, mashups of his own and others’ experiences. “So, inspiration can come from events in your own life, events that you know about, it can come from people that you know, it can come from readers, it can come from anywhere.

In the end, though, the story has to be right for it to be written.”

Considering Sparks takes many of his novel ideas from personal or related experience, he won’t listen to critics who say his writing is “sappy” or “beach-read level.” Sparks writes for more reasons than just pleasing the hopeless romantic. "The purpose of what I write is to move the reader through the entire range of human emotion, so that they feel as if they’ve experienced a mini life between the covers,” says Sparks. Any devout Sparks reader would agree that he takes them through all the emotions in the book.

Many may wonder how skeptical Sparks is about the editing and reproduction on the big screen, but Sparks is actually pretty open to the whole process. Many also question to whether Sparks will one day take up screenwriting. "I’ve been fortunate that the films made from my novels have been good ones, and they’ve been successful at the box office, and I think they’ve been faithful to the novels. I couldn’t be any happier. But in my heart, I’m a novelist—that’s primarily what I set out to do, is to write a novel that people will enjoy and remember.” While novel writing may be Sparks’ primary forte, he has been very successful in the field of production as he has released a total of ten box office hits including his most recent “The Best of Me” and “The Longest Ride.”

After seeing how successful Sparks was with his last two movies, media shouldn’t be surprised to see raving reviews when his new release, “The Choice,” hits theaters in April of 2016. Critics call the book engaging and heartwarming, and hope that Hollywood handles the scenes well. Many wonder if Sparks will continue writing even after his enormous successes; he answered saying he will continue until he writes something that becomes the “90% majority” favorite. Although writing a novel which trumps all his previous works is a incredible feat, Sparks will test the limits until he feels that he is successful.

So what is it that makes a book a favorite? “Perhaps its escapism or the ability to get lost in new worlds or to imagine yourself as something different than you are,” said Sparks. Fans agree that there is something magical 22

TRANSLATED TO FILM

http://nicholassparks.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/200709-thechoice.jpg

http://uk.nicholassparks.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/3/2008/07/ thechoice-680x1020.jpg

The Choice, released in 2007 to hit New York Times bestselling list, will flood box offices in April of 2016. Even though Travis Parker may have a seemingly beautiful life, he realizes when new neighbor Gabby Holland moves in that something had been missing. As the two experience an interesting love story full of barriers and compromise, readers will fall in love with the couple that is bound to loss and pain. —How far would you go to keep the hope of love alive?

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Since the length of this feature allows publishing to be very easy and efficient, I believe the best way to promote this feature story would be through magazine. Even though many print publications are “going out of style,” I think this article could be both an online version as well as a print version; many magazine companies make this dual-form of publication very available. If this were published as a magazine article, it would be easier to target a larger audience considering magazines are read by a range of demographics. Usually People Magazine has a portion of each issue dedicated to new releases in cinema or literature, and this article could fall under that category. There is also usually a feature section set apart for an interview with a famous person. Considering Nicholas Sparks’s books appeal to a wide range of people, I think a magazine publication would be one of the best options.

Another way of getting information about Nicholas Sparks would be to create some sort of visual media piece that could be broadcasted at movie theaters across America. Usually before someone sits down to watch a film, they have to sit through about fifteen to twenty minutes of previews— what a great chance to publicize The Choice or include a behind the scenes with Sparks! Having a video interview with Sparks and a preview of The Choice would expose this content to a range of people. Many women are drawn to read Nicholas Sparks books, but maybe after seeing Sparks talk and interact, men would be more drawn to read his books or take their wives to see his movies. Even though this form of publication may be considered more of an advertisement, it would bring more readers and viewers to watch or read Sparks’s works.

Tags: Nicholas Sparks, The Choice, The Longest Ride, The Best of Me, Romance, Love

Additional Links http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/09/18/nicholas-sparks-how-i-write.html (How Sparks writes) http://www.popsugar.com/entertainment/Nicholas-Sparks-Interview-About-Best-Me-Movie-35922159 (Family Life/The Best of Me) hows the family life after the divorce? http://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-goal/beat-writers-block/sparks-interview (How he gathers inspiration and all) http://www.biography.com/news/nicholas-sparks-biography-interview (Running and Writing) http://movies.about.com/od/thenotebook/a/noteprmns062104.htm (Movies and Books)

Claire McPeak is from Boulder, Colorado where she is going into her senior year at The Alexander Dawson School.

She has a passion for reading and writing, but also spends much of her time being active outside with golf, running, and swimming. In college, Claire would like to study business and communications. She hopes one day to be the founder of a startup and live in California.

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Lana Del Rey vs. Nancy Sinatra

Elizabeth Woolridge Grant, also known by her pseudonym “Lana Del Rey,” is a retro 60’s pop artist.

Lana Del Rey was born in New York, and she started writing music at the age of 18. Lana as a child knew she would aspire to have a musical career in her near future, however, she never knew anyone who was a real singer.

One of Lana’s influences is Nancy Sinatra; in fact, Lana refers herself as the “Gangsta Nancy Sinatra.” Nancy Sinatra was born on 1940 in Jersey City, New Jersey. Nancy grew passionate towards music because of her famous father Frank Sinatra. Nancy was a big musical artist in the 1960s. Lana Del Rey and Nancy Sinatra’s songs share parallelism that portray imagery of love that is unique and hasn’t been experienced before.

Lana Del Rey’s song, “Tv In Black In White.” talks about a lover in jail, and she sings that her love for him is unlike any other. She also mentions that he introduced “color” into her black and white life. “Living without you is like T.V in black and white. You turned me on and brought color into my life. When I’m around you suddenly I realize, that I was blind before I saw the world through your eyes.” (Lana Del Rey). This means that when a person has a significant lover, that person turns their darkest moments into color because they brought out happiness. Lana Del Rey uses this imagery to illustrate the love she has for him, to show that his love brings out the happiness in her and her life is no longer dull.

Nancy Sinatra’s song, “Summer Wine,” is about a man she meets, who she quickly notices his silver spurs. “Strawberries, cherries, and an angel’s kiss in spring. My summer wine is really made from all these things.” Nancy describes her love as wine like no other; she mixes things she finds romantic and things she loves and turns it into her “wine.” Summer is a lovely season, and so she names her wine “summer wine.” Also stated in Nancy’s song, “ My eyes grew heavy and my lips they could not speak I tried to get up but I couldn't find my feet she reassured me with an unfamiliar line and then she gave to me more summer wine.” (Nancy Sinatra).

Nancy is speaking from the perspective of her lover, and he is literally drunk in love. He longs for “summer wine,” which is Nancy’s love for her boyfriend.

The symbolic value that the wine represents in Nancy’s song resonates with Lana’s depiction of the color that her lover brings into her life, contrasting the black and white she use to see without her lover. Lana and Nancy also share the same sound and message through their song. they both share the same characteristics in their songs, and they both use imagery to show the importance of their personal experience with love and how love can be represented in different ways.

In conclusion, both of these songs talk about love with imagery that vividly portray romance in a unique and creative way. I learned that two artists from different eras can be similar; more than just one person in this world can share the same perspective. Because of Nancy’s perspective, that influenced Lana Del Rey to reintroduce Nancy’s elements of music to hers. This means many people in life, including the communications field, can bounce ideas off one another. Gradually in time, our understanding of a certain thing is strengthened.

Lana and Nancy Sinatra’s facial features convey a serious, yet expressive emotion. Their plump, rosy lips accentuate their romantic side. The retro curls fall down half past both of their shoulders, and each curl elegantly overlaps one another. The floral crown is the most significant piece of this photo. This shows the similarities between Lana Del Rey and Nancy Sinatra. The resemblance they share can be obviously seen. The black and white side shows the 20th century and the colored side depicts the 21st century. The two colors represent different time eras, however, Lana and Nancy share the same facial features, sound, and musical lyrics. This is important to my feature piece because I'm trying to portray the parallelism Lana and Nancy share.

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Interview with Lana Del Rey: Lana Del Rey is one of the most talked about artist in 2012. She’s topped ITunes music charts with fifth bestselling album this year. Many other artists across the globe wonder as to how Lana received a lot of notoriety and fame in such a short time. At a local Starbucks in New York City, I met Lana Del Rey and talked to her about her success and impact on her life.

Me: "Who are your influences in music, and how did they help you with becoming a successful artist?"

Lana: “I would say my influences would be the following: Elvis Presley, Frank and Nancy Sinatra, Amy Whinehouse, Nina Simone, Kurt Cobainoh god. I can go on. I really like a huge range of music from different genres. Masters of every genre is who I most resonate with.

They helped create me, and it’s helped me achieved success."

Me: "Name one role model and expand on how he or she makes you the person you are today" Lana: “Nancy Sinatra was one of my mentioned role models. I feel like I am the gangsta Nancy Sinatra of the 21st century. Her sound and cinematic music resonated with my aesthetic, and so I tried conveying every important aspect of Nancy through my music as a way of keeping her alive. She inspired me with the song summer wine, and when I first heard it, I knew I was going to sing. I also knew she was my influences."

Me: "Why Summer Wine? What song did you build off that?"

Lana: "Summer Wine has a beautiful melody. The lyrics are vividly illustrated. Summer Wine's theme of love matched many of my selection of music, however, there was few pieces that resembled Nancy, and one of them was TV in Black and White."

Me: "What element of love in particular did you talk about?"

Lana: "Introducing someone to your life and recreating it in a colorful, meaningful manner. Nancy uses a lot of beautiful imagery to express the unique love she shares with her special one. I use that element of love to create my songs. I'm afraid that's all the time we got. I'm headed to the studio in an hour!"

Me: "Leave your number and email for a follow up on today's interview!"

Lana: "Sure, I'd love to come back and share my perspective with the world. Thank you for having me. Love and kisses to my fans, I adore you all."

Baltazar Aguirre 26

Extraordinary According to webster, extraordinary means that something is not normal or unusual. However, in the songs “Extraordinary”, by Prince Royce and “L.O.V.E”, by Nat King Cole, the term extraordinary is used in a more romantic context. Although they both relate to idea of love, these two songs also have their differences; Extraordinary was released in 2015, and L.O.V.E was released in 1965.

The central theme in Extraordinary is basically showing that although things are not perfect, everything is fine because he has his extraordinary girl with him. He describes how this girl makes his days feel like he is living in paradise and that all he needs is her right next to him. The line that goes, “Sunday morning and cold rain is pouring down” is supposed to set the mood on how it is a bad day because of the weather, but then he goes on to say, “but that’s okay, i got sunshine next to me”, which portrays this idea that she is extraordinary because of the way she makes him feel.

Moreover, extraordinary built special importance to fans not only because of the lyrics, but because it was the first song they heard from his unreleased english album. Unknowingly, his fans in California attended his concert thinking they were only going only to hear his spanish music, but they were in for treat. That night, he carefully searched the crowd, and picked out his extraordinary girl to bring out onstage. He gracefully sang to her, hugged her, and ended it with a rose kiss. A rose kiss is when it looks they were kissing eachother, but there is a rose in between. The crowds first reaction was at first surprised because they never had heard this song, but soon began to love it. The song quickly spread through twitter, and fans all over the country began loving the song and searching for little snippets of it. More and more fans began counting down the days they too could see him perform it live, and wished that they were picked to go onstage. Some more lucky than others actually had that wish come true, and then the song began having a different importance to them. It turned into the song that they went onstage with, and the lyrics were then seen differently, memories were built, and it may have been the happiest days of their lives. Overall, it depends on the perspective and the certain memories you have with the song that controls how it makes you feel.

Similarly, Nat King Cole’s “L.O.V.E”, is displaying the idea that love is, in a way, is extraordinary also.

While describing love letter by letter he says, “V is very, very extraordinary”, showing that he too can find love extraordinary, even if it is an a different context. Nat King Cole is trying to get the point across that he only loves this one girl, and that is all he can give to her, as he states, “love is all that I can give to you”. Making the person this song is directed to feel loved and special also. Many artists have done a cover on LOVE, one well known artist now being Michael Buble, which shows that it was once popular, and had plenty of hits during that time period with lots of love from the public. [Show audience quotes here about liking the song].

Furthermore, Nat King Cole and Prince Royce wrote very similar songs, yet very different at the same time. The two songs both showed the idea of love being extraordinary, one being about a girl, and another about the love two people share. The two songs were written in very different time periods, yet share a lot in common. They both share this idea that love is this special feeling you have to your significant other, and the way they make you feel is indescribable. Similarly, they make the audience of the song feel quite special also.

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Prince Royce in concert with fan, Jen Ayala, after singing extraordinary to her.

This image has an importance to my feature piece because it displays a sense of joy the fan has. After having Prince Royce sing such beautiful words to her and making her feel like an “Extraordinary Girl”, he hugs her and you can clearly see her happiness.

Nat King Cole, Love is the Thing This is an image of Nat King Cole with “Love is the Thing”. It clearly shows that Nat King Cole was a very romantic guy, who wrote many love songs.

Two different mass medias: First, I’d like to interview someone who constantly listens to Nat King Cole especially during when the song was released to see their point of view and how they felt about it. Similarly, I’d like to interview one of the 28

girls who went on stage with Prince Royce to see how different they feel towards this song. I would like to do these interviews to see others perspectives on these two specific songs. Some of the questions I would ask are written below: Nat King Cole fan: On scale from 1-10 how big of a fan are you to Nat King Cole?

How was your reaction when you first heard the song? Did you like it?

Was this song popular in your time?

How do the lyrics make you feel?

Does this song hold a special memory to you?

Prince Royce fan: How did going on stage and having this song sang to you by the artist who wrote it change how you felt about the song?

How do the lyrics make you feel?

What's one of your favorite lyrics from the song? *make them listen to LOVE by Frank Sinatra* How do these two songs compare, or are different?

Since this song was released a couple weeks ago, how do you think it will go popularity wise? Will it be a hit?

Another type of mass media I would like include would be a slideshow. I would include pictures of Nat King Cole and Prince Royce onstage in concerts singing the songs. Also, I would add pictures of the crowd during that performance and focus mainly on their facial expressions to see if they enjoyed it. Lastly, I would put pictures of my interviewees and the artist themselves.

Karla Garcia 29

Interviewing Laverne Cox It exuded steam and a scent that you could only find here. Every time it was set down a small amount would hop out and drip down the side, leaving a brown streak atop the white ceramics. This dripping was similar to the dripping outside. The windows were covered in small droplets that left their imprint where they had been, it was gloomy, but the atmosphere within the coffee shop contradicted the low-spirited outdoors. The near silent sounds of clanking and inconsistent chatter brought the room to life, giving me motivation to speak to my guest.

She was no average person, not by any stretch of the imagination. Her brown and golden streaked locks flowed over her shoulders as she walked in and looked around in confusion. I waved at her, letting her know where I was. As she sat she let me know that I only had 20 minutes of her time and that she heard how good of interviewer I am, so she carved this time out of her schedule. Although I was slightly irritated having been led on thinking we would have at least 45 minutes, I was still hung over on the excitement of being able to interview the one and only Laverne Cox. After the engagement of small talk on the weather and sports that I couldn't care less about, I began my questions, warning her that some might be difficult for her to answer.

“What's a normal day in the life of Laverne like?”

“How many hours a day are you actually off? Off as in not doing anything, just chilling and relaxing?”

“What's the best compliment you've gotten? The worst insult?”

“Do you pay attention to those who comment poorly on you or your performance in Orange is the New Black?”

“What were/ are your opinions of Caitlyn Jenner and her family?” {“"[I think] Caitlyn looks amazing and is beautiful but what I think is most beautiful about her is her heart and soul, the ways she has allowed the world into her vulnerabilities[.] The love and devotion she has for her family and that they have for her. Her courage to move past denial into her truth so publicly."”} “What did you do the day SCOTUS was passed?”

“Did you, for lack of a better term, put yourself out there so you could inspire others and change opinions or was your fame simply by luck?”

“Does being a transgender make it easier to portray one on Orange is the New Black?”

“Do you ever become tired of answering questions about you being a transgender?”

"What do you want the end result for America to be, in terms of acceptance?"

She answered all the questions with extreme ease, leaving me in awe of how naturally her replies came.

Instead of feeling like an interview, she made it feel more like a normal every day conversation. At no point did she give the slightest hint of being uncomfortable or insulted. She left me with a multitude of answers and a hug that displayed true comfort and love. I can say, without a doubt, that this interview was if not the best, one of the best interviews I've done.

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Laverne Cox portraying her character on Orange is the New Black, Sophia Burset, a transsexual colored woman in prison; showing the physical similarities between Cox and Burset and giving the reader more of an idea on how similar Cox and her character are.

http://www.popsugar.com/entertainment/photo-gallery/ 35032619/image/35032959/Laverne-Cox-Sophia-Burset

This image is of Cox sans makeup posing for an Instagram photo; also the way she appeared for the interview, following my request of appearing without makeup, so I could get the "real" Laverne.

http://www.starpulse.com/news/Adam_Bellotto/ 2015/06/01/what-does-laverne-cox-look-like-withou

This interview would easily be able to be converted into slideshow, given the idea that many pictures throughout the interview were taken. The pictures would also have captions next to them either describing her facial expression toward a question being asked or the question asked and her reply. If pictures were not taken then pictures from the Internet would suffice, also having the same captions.

Another way the piece could be translated would be into links. There could be a list of questions and under each question would be a link to an answer. Since she's done multiple interviews and even answered questions outside of interviews (i.e. Twitter and Tumblr), answers would be fairly simple to find and the link would be able to lead straight to that specific answer. *all quotes in brackets are answers from previous interviews that fit the questions asked

Kazai Drew is from right outside of Dallas, Texas. Currently she attends Bishop Dunne Catholic School, where she is preparing to be a sophomore. In her past time she enjoys photography, writing poetry, and creating short stories.

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Nazi Propaganda Exhibit At the Missouri History Museum “All effective propaganda must limit itself only to a very few points and to use them like slogans,” Adolf Hitler. The Nazi Propaganda exhibit at the Missouri History Museum gives one both a history of Nazi Germany and the history of Propaganda itself. The exhibit touches on everything that happened in Nazi Germany, highlighting how the Nazi’s used Propaganda to take power in Germany and to impose their terror on Jews, neighboring countries, and the world..

The Nazi Party first came into power in 1929 due to a worsening economy from the stock market crash.

Germany was still struggling economically because of its obligations to pay reparations from World War I and needed a way to rebuild itself and a stable economy. The Nazi Party promised economic growth to attract supporters, who wanted to build what they thought would be a better Germany. But, the Nazi’s also used Propaganda to demonize other communities, like Jews, in order to win support. Their effective propaganda at once built German pride and made it acceptable to terrorize the Jews, Gypsies, Poles, Czechs and others who stood in their way.

Besides giving a brief history on the Nazi Party, the exhibit also highlights some goals of the Nazi Party such as appealing to women and children to help build the future of Germany, and shows some of the posters that the Nazis published to make that point.

Nazi propaganda took other forms, such as the movies from Nuremberg and the Olympics, and books such as Hitler’s, Mein Kampf. Written by Hitler while imprisoned, Mein Kampf (My Struggle) outlines all the principles and ideals of the Nazi Party. It also became the biggest source of propaganda for the Nazi Party and a way to attract followers.

Besides Mein Kampf, the exhibit includes many other artifacts that the Nazi Party used during the twentieth century. A radio from the 1920s, for example, resides in the exhibit detailing another way the Nazi Party was able to spread their ideas.

Though the Nazi Propaganda Exhibit is not a Holocaust exhibit, it does have a section dedicated to the anti-Semitism portrayed by the Nazi Party. There is a video explaining The Final Solution, videos with Nazi Party members, videos of Holocaust survivors, and propaganda that highlighted the anti-Semitism.

From the moment you walk into the exhibit you are placed in a figurative time machine back to history.

You see a statue of Hitler’s face and are surrounded by the propaganda and other artifacts. The exhibit has the lights dimmed to add to the mood with dark colors everywhere. The creator of the exhibit says, [quote from the creator of the exhibit explaining the choice of aesthetics for the exhibit ].

The Nazi Propaganda exhibit properly portrays not only the history of World War II and the Nazi Party but the propaganda side of the War as well. The exhibit is very informative and educates on the important role of Propaganda in the rise of Nazi Germany and in the history of World War II. The exhibit focuses on the insidious impact of propaganda on creating the anti-Semitism to facilitate the Holocaust and in portraying the actions of the Nazi Party. A visitor to the museum says, [a quote from someone looking at the exhibit saying what they learned].

Additional benefits of the Nazi Propaganda Exhibit include: entry at no cost, English translations of the propaganda, and of course the historical facts displayed all throughout the exhibit.

So come check at the Nazi Propaganda Exhibit located in the Missouri History Museum in Forest Park.

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Above: Mein Kampf at the Missouri History Museum Mein Kampf is a very important image to my feature piece because it was the Nazi Party’s biggest piece of propaganda. Mein Kampf, My Struggle, details all of the Nazi Party’s ideals. Written by Hitler, this book became a piece of propaganda that the Nazi Party would rely on throughout their reign. The book is displayed in a case in the Nazi Propaganda exhibit.

Additional Mass Media Ideas One other mass media design that I would turn my feature piece into is a brochure. My writing style would change by becoming more concise (probably using bullet points) and it would also become more persuasive. The first page of the brochure would have a quote from Hitler about propaganda and then also a picture of Mein Kampf. Then the brochure would open up to a history of the rise of the Nazi Party, a page detailing the historical artifacts in the exhibit, a preview of the propaganda (pictures of the propaganda), and a page on the AntiSemitism. The brochure would end with persuasive statements on why someone should come to the exhibit.

The audience for the brochure would change from the audience for the feature piece because with the brochure the audience is most likely already in the museum, while with the feature piece the audience is deciding whether they want to come to the museum in the first place.

A second mass media design that I would turn my feature piece into is a picture slideshow with the propaganda and other pictures from the exhibit. The slideshow would both start and end with a picture of Mein Kampf, and within the picture slideshow there would be a picture of Hitler’s statue displayed in the exhibit, and of course all the pictures of the propaganda posters. The color scheme of the picture slideshow would match that of the exhibit. My writing style would change from the feature piece because there would be very little writing. Rather, there would be short captions with each picture. The audience for the picture slide show would change from the audience for the feature piece because the audience for the picture slideshow would have most likely not been able to come to the exhibit, yet still would have wanted to see a glimpse of it. Again, the audience for the feature piece is still deciding whether they want to come to the museum in the first place. However, there is some overlap between these two audiences as some people reading the feature article may also want to see the picture slideshow if they cannot attend the exhibit.

Simone Burde is from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. She is a rising junior at Lower Merion High School. She enjoys playing tennis, reading, writing, and spending time with her family.

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Interview with an Allen In today’s modern society only a few special adults retain their imagination, such as my guest, Sarah Addison Allen. A native of North Carolina she has a taste for inputting a charm into all of her novels. How does she do it? Well, I recently found out this Thursday at her house and here is what she said: [Questions:] Who inspired you to be an author?

A: I have always loved books and my father was a journalist set me on the right track.

Did you believe you would get published and become a great author before it happened?

What did you plan on doing if writing did not work out or was that never an option?

A: *No answer*.

Many authors are told they do not have what it takes to be astounding, were you ever told that?

What struggles have you faced in writing? I understand you went through breast cancer, how did that affect your writing? Is that the biggest struggle you have faced or has there been even worse?

What helps you write? Where/what is your favorite workplace?

What is your favorite book: from your work and in general?

Are you unhappy with any of your books?

Are your books based off of your life or are pieces of it inserted in them?

Which character would you say you are most like? Or are they all too much like you? Are you The Girl Who Chased the Moon?

Do you truly believe in magic? If so, how come?

Why is magic an influence in your novel? Where and how do you come up with the magical qualities?

I know you just came out with First Frost which is the sequel to Garden Spells but will there be a series in the future? For your current novels or a complete new one?

After answering all my questions in a kindly manner, with the exception of one where she simply had a fearful look in her eyes, Allen and I went our separate ways. (Mention where she was going if I knew). Although, before we parted I had one final question: What are you working on now? (Her response, if I knew, here).

I wanted my feature to come out like something that would be in a magazine, a Q & A style. I figured it would be cute to do and that Allen would enjoy it; I feel that she would. If we were to have an interview we would both have a blast, especially when she realizes how young her interviewer is. She would be intrigued by what I would be doing and perhaps she would give me her support and we would become best friends (A fairytale ending like in her books; we could be Julia and Stella). I would have a lot of fun in such an interview because Allen is an amazing writer and I would get to know her as a person than solely as an author.

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This piece could become a visual interview, as in a video, and I believe it would work well. Instead of writing about it I would be talking and those who watch would be able to see how it went. If it were to be a video I would consider asking more personal questions so that her readers can better get to know her. The video would be directed at fans of all kinds and I would insert more questions about her trip through cancer for those who are interested. An hour for an interview should suffice but I may be wrong because cancer is a very serious talk and I would not want to get sidetracked with that I would like to return to her writing and mix the two together to see what she says, how it affected her and so forth. I feel that this type of interview would be more insightful and open. Also, I would make sure beforehand that she agreed and was prepared for such an interview.

For a blog, my piece would be shortened profusely. I would have to lose or alter the last paragraph and just give important pieces of the interview. Instead of being entirely about her personal life I would focus more on her writing; I would be reviewing her and her books thus allowing people the opportunity to consider her work. This type of piece would be directed more at teenagers and adults who understand technology. Not everyone reads blogs so I would have to work with that and compose my piece in the format of a blog, which I have never done. If I could, I would post it on a book website because Allen is an author and what better way for other readers to come across her. Or if I have my own page I would post it on that; it all depends on the type of blog I have, knowing me it would be more about books or random subjects so my readers (whoever they may be) will be used to it and hopefully, be interested. If I knew who my readers were I would make sure it falls within their interest.

Yolotzin Avilia-Cruz 35

Creative Writing Institute

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Let Education Ring Life was my first classroom Fist that left my mother’s face fractured Was the first illustration crayolored in black and blue I still see the picture of the sirens Flashing nightmares While I try to finish homework On my block Young boys don’t read books Instead they’re booked For little baby bags of blow your life away So much negativity Kids need a hide away Someone to show them that god is not that far away Someone to take them by the hand When they don’t know how to pray I wish I can spray my environment Air freshen the stench of mediocrity In my environment They say education is the only scent I can use to change the febreeze in my environment So I want it The mountain Dr.King use to talk about in his dream Now I’m on it The dream is now Let education ring From the two flat buildings in Austin To the murder rates in Englewood Let education ring From the concrete roses in Altgeld To the mixed and low income housing in Cabrini Green Let education ring From the churches and pulpits From which the first colleges and universities was founded Let education ring from the science labs of Percy Julian, George Washington Carver, and the halls of the Tuskegee.

The door of Education is wide open Because you walked through it We believe I Am Beautiful. Black. Strong.

We believe We can defeat the odds For as Nelson Mandela said 37

“Education is the most powerful weapon” We believe Education is one of the greatest acts of love, It is through it That I love god, love my neighbor, and love myself For as a man thinks So is he John Dewy was right “Education is not a preparation for life Education is life itself” Let education ring Let education ring Let education ring

Madeja Sims is from Chicago, IL. She goes to Johnson College Prep High School, where she is now a junior. She enjoys doing Spoken word, art, and loves to read drama short stories.

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Swan She stands in the circle of yellow light, head down, body poised in anticipation, a snake about to strike.

Movement starts in the fingertips, spreads throughout her body, like lightning crackling through her veins.

She twirls and twists, stretches and strains Every beat reverberates in her chest.

She flutters about the stage light as a paper thin butterfly But bright lights hide things with their blinding glare.

Backstage, in the cracked mirror of the dressing room ribs poke through the ivory skin of her stomach like knives.

Her cheekbones protrude from her face at sharp angles And shadows dance across the hills and valleys of her face.

She balances on legs thin as a spider’s as if they were stilts.

Onstage, everyone is oblivious.

All you see is the white swan, none of her darkness.

Olivia Szymanski is originally from Ridgewood, New Jersey. She is a rising high school senior, and enjoys reading, photography, and dance.

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The Eyes His eyes. They were almost cat-like; the hazy moon’s light reflected on the irises as Sophia watched the stranger from her open apartment window. Those eyes. She's seen them before, she has looked into them before, wondered what is he thinking about?

Sophia looked away for what seemed like less than a second until she heard commotion beneath her window, just out of her vision. When she glanced back, the cloaked stranger was gone leaving behind nothing but shadow. She leaned out the window, getting closer and closer to falling. Her trash cans had been knocked over and a young woman was lying on the ground. The once heather grey sidewalk started to darken. An opaque liquid started to ripple out from underneath the woman. Sophia hurriedly dialed 911.

“Hello?” Sophia asked as soon as the operator picked the phone up.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

Sophia was frantic. What did she just see? “I don’t know what just happened. I saw this man under my window just a minute ago, and now this woman’s on the ground. I think she was just murdered.” Her voice broke, sobs threatening to escape her throat. Since when do women get murdered in cold blood in Sutton Place?

“Okay. Ma’am?” the operator asked. “You need to tell us where you are. I’ll send dispatch out now, okay?”

“Okay. My address is 956 First Avenue, Sutton Place, New York.”

“Dispatch is on their way. Make sure you lock all of your doors, and keep your windows shut.” Sophia did as she was told; her front door was bolted shut and her kitchen windows closed. She turned away, shut off the lights, and laid down in bed, deep down wondering who would be the next victim.

The next morning as the sun shone into Sophia’s bedroom window, she awoke with a start. She got this feeling like someone was watching her, observing her every move; Goosebumps raced up and down her spine, her faint, brown hair on her arms and neck stood straight up, and her heart was pounding to the steady beat of a drum. She sat up, too scared to get out of her bed to search her apartment. Sophia glanced about her bedroom.

No one was watching her, no one was spying on her. Sophia got out of bed, sat on her window seat, and looked out at the nearby city.

The beautifully tall buildings that used to frighten her now seemed comforting since she’s lived in this suburb outside of New York City for five years. On every block that Sophia could see, there were at least three buildings that seemed to break apart the clouds and penetrate the sky. Their glass windows reflected every ray of sunlight, and the neon lights and billboards advertised food and products while little people were bustling about. Sophia had no idea how she could be so scared of these buildings before. As her eyes were fixed on the buildings, her mind wandered to various memories she had had from years ago.

She remembered the day her parents told her to live her dream in the city when she was eighteen. Her little hometown of Damascus, Virginia was all about nature; trails, hiking, owning little resorts—that’s what Sophia’s parents originally envisioned for her. But when Sophia told her mother and father that she had no intention of staying in Damascus, they were proud of Sophia. They said, “Leave this town, Sophia. Go live your dream!” They loaned her enough money for one year at Columbia University to study social work.

Sophia distinctly remembered the smell of the city; the varieties of food, the overpowering gasoline odor. Sophia was so used to the smell of nature and outdoors. Though after she saw her first skyscraper, she was in love.

Her mind raced back to two years ago. Sophia was a junior in college, and she worked waitressing to slowly pay her loans. She took the subway to the low-key coffee shop where she worked, like she had done every day after school for the past three years. As she was sweeping the floors for opening, a man sauntered through the door. He wore a blue striped, button down polo. His khaki shorts were barely lighter than his skin, and on his feet he wore Nikes with no scuffs.

Sophia said instinctively, “We’re closed.” Still, the door shut, the little bell hanging above the door dinging slightly. His voice cracked as he tried to ask Sophia a question.

“Can I have some coffee, ma’am?” His voice was deep and rugged, making Sophia intrigued. His eyes found hers and she almost fainted with awe. She noticed how beautifully green they were. This was the first time she saw those impeccable eyes. Suddenly, she forgot that he asked a question.

“I’m sorry, what did you ask, sir?” Sophia drawled with her faint southern accent.

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He responded, “I was just wondering if I could have some coffee?” He smiled at her, revealing a gorgeous smile. She flipped her long, chocolate colored hair and smiled warmly at the stranger.

Her brown eyes met his brilliant green eyes as she answered. “Sure, you can have some coffee. Do you want cream or sugar?”

“No thank you, ma’am. Just black coffee. Where are you from? You have a slight accent,” he wondered.

“I’m from Virginia. You ever been there?” Sophia asked as she poured him a cup of coffee.

“Probably. I’ve been to so many places I lost count.” The stranger removed his hat and exposed an exquisite face. His blonde hair was short in length and had a slight wave to it. His bone structure was defined, like he was sculpted by Michelangelo. His skin was sun-tanned, like he spent most of his time outdoors. “Thanks for the coffee, uh…” he paused, as though begging Sophia to give him her name.

“My name’s Sophia. And I’d be glad to pour you some coffee anytime. Do I get to know your name?” she replied flirtatiously.

“James. Nice to meet you, Sophia. Do you want to join me for some coffee sometime?” Charm oozed out his lips, and his cocked smile revealed slight dimples.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” She wrote her cell phone number on a beverage napkin, and slid it on the square, cherry colored table. “Call me sometime, James.”

James nodded and said, “I will.”

Sophia went on three dates with James; first at the little café, then to lunch where they sold lunch specials that were “organic” but really tasted like cardboard, and lastly to the movies for a matinee showing of a romantic comedy. For each date, James kept a pair of black aviator sunglasses latched on his button down polo, but he never put them on his face. Even when it rained, James kept the sunglasses on his shirt. Also, he continuously checked his watch at 12:45 each date. But, when Sophia mentioned it to him, he wrote it off as some kind of OCD. Her homework was a mountain sitting on her desk, her boss threatened that she would have to find a new job if she kept being late to work, and her landlord increased her rent because a wealthier tenant wanted her apartment. So, Sophia had to end things with James.

Sophia dazed back to reality. While she never saw James again, she kept receiving messages from a blocked number. “I miss you,” one said. Another, “Let’s go out.” Ever since those messages started, she couldn’t help feeling worried all the time. Sophia moved from her window seat back to her bed again. She grabbed one of the remotes from her TV table and turned on her TV that was mounted onto the wall. The news channel was the first thing to pop up.

“Serial killer of two years still has not been caught. New evidence was found that the serial killer is still active. Young Jamie Morison was murdered last night between 11:30 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. in Sutton Place, New York with a cause of death similar to the serial killer’s pattern,” the news anchor announced. Sophia remembered a couple stories of young women being murdered around Sutton Place. It had been a while though.

A picture flashed across the screen of the young woman who was murdered last night. Her hair is medium length, and of a mousey brown color. The eyes are like milk chocolate. “This is a picture of the suspected killer. If you see this man, call 1-800-HELP-NOW or your local police,” the news anchor continues. A man appears on the screen. On top of his blonde hair sits a black baseball cap. His cheekbones are well-defined, like the side of a cliff, and square glasses barely conceal his eyes the color of vibrant summer grass.

Sophia’s arms and neck were unexpectedly covered with goose bumps, though Sophia had no idea why. Her apartment was heated to keep out the biting January winds. The rusty hinge creaked as her door slightly opened. Faint footsteps tip-toed on her tiled kitchen floor. She muted her TV and listened to the footsteps. They started to grow louder and louder as each step came closer to her bedroom. Sophia snatched her cell phone from her bedroom table and bolted to her tiny New York City-type closet. Her fingers dialed 911, shaking as each number was pressed.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.

“There’s an intruder in my apartment. I heard the door creak open when it was locked, and I don’t know what to do. I’m in my closet right now, but it’s tiny. I can hardly move, and breathe, and I’m so confused. What do I do?” Sophia’s voice was lilted, but she kept quiet; somehow, her instincts told her to keep her voice down.

“What’s your address?”

“956 First Avenue, Sutton Place, New York.”

41

Sophia paused, pressing her ear to the closet door. The footsteps stopped, then continued onto the hardwood flooring of her bedroom.

“Dispatch is on their way,” the operator continued. Sophia hung up. The walls of the closet seemed to gravitate towards the middle.

“Sophia,” a rugged male voice called out. “Come on out, Sophia. You can’t hide from me.” The voice laughed when Sophia gave no response. Why can’t he leave me alone? The intruder’s hand gripped the door knob to her closet, shaking the knob, taunting her, knowing that he could easily open the door. It was all a game for the intruder.

“Sophia, you were very hard to find. But look, I found you now. Do you really think a small door will keep me from you?” the voice beckoned. The man continued to shake the knob, increasing the anticipation.

Sophia looked all around in her closet, trying to find something to keep her safe if the police didn’t come in time.

She found a wire hanger, bent the hanger straight, and readied herself, knowing there was no other weapon in the tiny closet. A demonic groan escaped from the intruder. He was laughing.

Sophia backed up as far as she could, knocking over her pumps and tennis shoes. At least three sets of heavy footsteps pounded through her apartment. The closet door swung open, seeming to come off the hinges, and light shone into the once pitch-black closet. Someone approached the closet, gun pointing right at Sophia.

A scream escaped Sophia’s throat. Her closet light blinked on. Sophia squinted her eyes. A man with a blue collared shirt tucked into black slacks was wearing a thick, black vest. His gun the color of midnight was searching the closet, looking for the intruder.

“Clear!” “Clear!” “It’s clear!” many men voices called out, seeming to speak to the man in charge.

“Where is he?” Sophia squealed. “Where did he go? He was just here! He was shaking my doorknob and… Where’s James?” Her forehead creased, yet her eyes were wide open. She bolted out of the room searching for James.

“There is no intruder here, ma’am. There was no sign of break-in, your locked door was completely intact, and all windows were closed,” the voice explained.

“What? That’s not possible! James was just here! He was laughing at me!”

“We’re sorry, ma’am, but if he was here, then he had a key and he’s not here anymore.” She looked into the officer’s eyes, trying make sense of the situation. She noticed how beautifully green they were. They were just like James’; cold, beautiful, and sadistic.

Kelly Jensen is from Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. She goes to Badger High School, where she will be a junior this coming year. She enjoys writing fiction, listening to music, and spending time outdoors.

42

This is a poem created after reading the novel Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane. The novel is about a young South African boy who grows up during the time of black segregation in South African Apartheid. Throughout this poem, the narrator is an oppressed South African comparing his life of oppression to that of an African American during segregation in the United States.

We Are One In The Same I, too, sat alone and afraid in the dark skin I was cursed with We were both victim to the insubordination created by our enemies Their atrocious cruelties and fatalistic words were like fists of steel And these fists gave constant blows to our already broken souls You know of struggles that come with the bearing of a dark outer layer You, my friend, have suffered just as I You had to sit on the back of the bus while whites made their way to the front You, too, were taunted by the signs that hung above facilities saying “whites only” The white men kept their power because we allowed them to To avoid confrontation, we bowed down to the white men I, brother, was indignant Resentful toward the white men who persecuted my South African family This scrutiny we lived under was nowhere near equal You, just as I, questioned “ separate but equal” And kept these words on constant repeat in our minds Because if “equal” why is there the need to be separate!

We both had a voice A voice that stood up and led our families to our safe havens For my people and I, Nelson Mandela’s voice was heard over all, our South African king The man who dedicated his life to defending his people…His South African family For you, your brothers, and sisters, that same mesmerizing voice heard by all Was Martin Luther King Jr.’s The man who saw equality in all The man who sought no violence to solve his problems But in 1964, our voice, Mandela was sentenced to imprisonment for life And in 1968, your voice, Mr. King was assassinated

Though our voices were silenced, the message still rang More voices arose from the corners of darkness Our ANC stood up and used their voices to fight for the freedom of blacks in South Africa And your Civil Rights leaders continued to agitate the U.S government All we wanted was the locks on our shackles to be broken The lock that held your brothers and sisters shackles tight was Jim Crow While my South African family’s locks were Pass Books

43

My family was constantly taunted by the thoughts of being beaten in the streets Our children lived in shacks on cold scraps and bathed in their own feces Day by day we fought a constant battle with malnourishment Mothers threw their newborn children in landfills because they knew that this was no world for a black child My suffering just as yours, brother, seemed unconquerable Death seemed more inviting than life itself Suffering had finally succeeded in penetrating to my very soul Establishing within my consciousness a certain fear of living But what we were soon to realize was that all life is precious No matter the color of your skin And every soul deserves happiness

Taylor Jackson is from Chicago, Illinois. She attends Pritzker College Prep, where she is a junior. She enjoys creative writing, poetry slam competitions, and playing rugby.

44

This would not exist This would not exist if I didn't remember. If I didn’t remember that night, the stars above us the moon guiding us. The dark forest filled with the shadows of the night. Remember you held my hand in yours and led me through the path.

The cold breeze running through the trees, made my body shiver. We ran for what seemed forever until I breathlessly said “I can’t.” Your once gleaming emerald eyes now looked at me lifeless. I felt cold and your warm touch did not help. The air was escaping out my lungs as you whispered “I'm sorry.” I remember running, running through that path.

Do you remember it? The path in which your gleaming emerald eyes stared into mine, many months ago. Where you whispered in my ear, I love you. I remember the sound of the crunching leaves as I ran that path.

Hoping to make it to the main road. Hoping to forget the events of that night.

As I sit here now, I can’t help but reminisce over your sandy blonde hair and that big, stupid, crooked grin you gave me every time I made you laugh.

I say I’m over you, but if I was, this would not exist.

Victoria Vargas is from Waukegan, Illinois. She attends Waukegan High School, where she is a junior. She loves volleyball, reading, horror movies, and fishing. She is kind towards others and loves to make people laugh.

45

Another Winter Ride It’s colder, now. Netta rubs at the backs of her chapped hands and wishes for water. The air sucks the moisture out of things and when she presses her lips into a thin line, the skin stretches fragile, tearing in two places. She thinks of her chapstick at home and blots her fingertips against her mouth.

The sun is still barely above the horizon at this hour – last month it would have been fully dark – and its faint orangey light gives Netta a tired sense of optimism. One day these waits will not be so painful, one day she will not need to wear coats, one day she will be warm again. She can hardly imagine. There is little heat to be generated by walking, and she will find no rest at her destination. She has long since missed the 5:45 train. The next one comes at 6:10.

Netta cuts a bulky, top-heavy figure as she trudges up the sidewalk towards the train station. She walks half curled in on herself, she in her large, puffy jacket with the gaping hood that lets freezing air billow inside of it and swirl around Netta’s head. Not visible to the passerby, Netta also wears a second jacket beneath that, a cotton hoodie with the hood drawn up and the drawstrings pulled tight. This second hood helps a little with the swirling effect, but it isn’t an airtight solution. She has no gloves.

On the platform, under the cold white lights, Netta heads to the side that will put her on the westbound train for home. This commute – a thirty minute ride, then a ten minute walk from the stop to home – means her day doesn’t end when she clocks out. The travel drags it on, the timing of the train irregular enough and the weather cold enough to keep her from relaxing. She eyes the bench unenthusiastically. It will be freezing … but maybe just a moment, her feet are so sore …

A faint murmur, on the wind. Indistinct, then louder. “... don’t know why you care so much anyway.”

The voice is coming from the sidewalk leading up to the platform. Two other figures are approaching, silhouetted in the fading light. Netta casts them a glance, then tucks her chin back inside her coat.

The bench is as cold as Netta feared. She takes her hands from her pockets and cups them underneath her thighs in an effort to make herself more comfortable. It’s not very effective. By her foot, a square of paper slides along the ground – a burger wrapper, the Dairy Queen logo printed on its waxy surface. Netta has handled enough of those just today to last her a lifetime. The wind lifts it, tosses it up, turns it over. Grease stains and crumbs stick to it. A pause, then another wind shifts it again, the wrapper scraping against the ground as it’s carried it to the yellow line you’re not supposed to cross. The overhead light of the platform reaches that line, but no farther. The tracks are in darkness.

“– can’t be hopeless.” Another snatch of conversation. The pair is on the platform now. With a final eddy of wind, the Dairy Queen wrapper flips and disappears into darkness.

“No. Jack. Listen. You can’t do anything with an art degree.”

Netta can’t stand to sit down any more. She rises from the bench and stuffs her frigid hands deep into her pockets. There is a board erected in the center, postered full of maps and advertisements, and the eastgoers and westgoers gather on each side of this board. It isn’t much of a barrier, but it’s an illusion of one. The pair engaged in conversation must be going east – they pause now on the other side of the same board Netta stands next to. She stamps her feet and breathes out, the heat of her breath catching in her coat and temporarily warming the bottom of her face.

“There are successful artists, you know,” the man – Jack – says.

“Yeah, but it’s, like, point-oh-oh-oh-one percent of them.”

Jack isn’t bothering to keep his voice down. Netta turns away, pulling her hood up tighter around her head, but even then his voice is distractingly loud. “It has to be more than that,” he is arguing now. “And, you know, the good ones make it.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if it worked that way,” the woman says. “Jack, could you stop being a damn optimist for like one second? You’re screwing yourself over.”

“You’re the one getting screwed over here,” Jack argues back. “Pushing yourself into getting some – some drab business degree. You’re going to be miserable.”

A synthetic, empty voice over the PA system temporarily drowns out the conversation. Netta looks at her watch. 6:07. With the tired hopefulness of someone who is cold to the bone, she sticks her head out and checks down the shadowy tracks. There is a grassy hill rising up across them, and a chain link fence at the top of it, black against the dark blue sky. Down in the chasm cut out of the earth for the train, she can barely see light 46

glinting off the metal of the tracks. The train isn’t coming, of course. The announcement was just talking about platform safety anyway.

“You’re not going to be happy if you can’t eat,” the woman is saying. “Listen, keep art as a hobby. But please switch your major to something you can make money off of.”

“No,” Jack says obstinately. “This is what I love. I’m going to do what I love, and I’m going to do it well, because I love it.” The woman is still trying to keep the conversation private, but Jack’s statement echoes around the cold, quiet platform.

“Jack, you think – you think, if you love it enough – but that’s not how it works!” the woman says. Netta nods to herself almost without realizing it. “I’m going to have a future. You’re going to –” “A future?” Jack asks. Netta turns around, but the board is between herself and the arguing pair, and she can’t see more than their feet through the gap below it. One has boots, the other wears tennis shoes with fluffy socks visible below the end of the pant leg. “Eve, do you think of the future?” Jack says now, his voice ringing grandly. “A better life, a husband, and – what’s that number? 2.5? 2.5 children? Are you truly taken in by that picture of the American Dream?”

It’s 2.06, Netta thinks apathetically.

Eve makes a sound – a sharp, offended release of breath. “Jack, you pompous –!” she says. “Don’t you know me at all?”

Netta rests her weight on one leg to jiggle her foot, the motion sending pins and needles through her numb leg. 6:09. “I’m only hoping for a job! Maybe enough to pay the bills!” Eve’s volume has gone up now, and out of the corner of her eye Netta can see a man waiting a ways down the platform glance over at them. “And, a husband – no! A wife! A wife, Jack! I’m –” “Attention, passengers …”

Netta’s head lifts. This time, it really is the announcement for her train. She swallows and stamps her feet, stepping back from the yellow line as the lights emerge from the blackness.

“– know how much women make? And two of us, even if we can marry –” “... westbound train …”

“– see why I can’t afford to chase my dreams? There’s no way –” “... arriving in …”

“Eve, Eve! I only –” The train squeals in, buffeting Netta with cold air. The lights inside are much warmer than the lights on the platform.

But as the doors open, Netta only takes half a step towards the train. She glances over her shoulder again. She sort of wants to see their faces. Especially Eve’s. She can’t, though – only the advertisement board, and the occasional elbow sticking out from behind it. Their voices are lost in the noise from the train.

It will only pause here a moment, before it goes on. She has to board now. It’s thirty minutes till the next. But still Netta hesitates.

No. With a last look towards the pair, she steps into the light and warmth of the train, her roughened hands finding one of the poles for stability in the standing room. The seats are all filled with bundled-up people, compact in their sweaters.

The train doors close. It speeds out of the station. Netta turns her head to watch the platform disappear behind her, and catches a glimpse – a purple bobbled hat, a black jacket, a blue scarf.

Well, there they go. She sighs to herself, anticipating the work awaiting her at home. She will be arriving after 6:30. In the summer, it wouldn’t be so bad, but in the winter, the early darkness makes everything seem later, the last of the day slipping away …

Kendra Swanson lives in St. Louis and attends Ladue High School. She owns way too many books, wears flannel pajamas all through the summer, and has a variety of other quirky, endearing personality traits.

47

Michael Jude Michael Jude was born with resolve and wisdom on August 21st, 1964 in Pine Island Hospital, Minnesota. He was the second child and first son, and had three brothers and two sisters follow quickly behind him. He was brought home from the hospital to a small, unkempt townhouse, where he shared a crib with his sister, only eleven months older than he. His dad was a lawyer, though not a very good one, and his mom was a homemaker, though not a very nice one. They fought a lot, his parents. His mom kept a suitcase packed and one foot out the door at all times, and his dad always threatened to lock her out. The hostility was unrelenting and stiff, and eventually followed the brood all the way to California.

At thirteen, Michael started a paper route. He had to begin "contributing," his father had told him. The morning before his first day of eighth grade was his first day on the job. He hasn't had a day off since.

After high school, Michael worked his way through Notre Dame. He graduated after four years with a degree in groundwater geology. It was his father's idea to major in it, but he hated it; didn't want to be a scientist. So he became a suit. Believing in the value of fancy education, he put himself through business school, setting himself back a couple thousand dollars in debt. By then he'd met his wife, and everything seemed like a fairytale, though they soon realized the short distance their money could take them. He was up to his eyebrows in loans, and had to pay back his dad for a couple things he had no recollection of, and she had just started her career as a lowly high school teacher. So Michael did what he had to do: got a job, worked himself half to death, and let thirty years pass. Had three daughters, paid back his debts, told his boss that he was leaving the company dammit, started his own business (a water investment company), travelled every week, gave his money to his siblings, his wife, his daughters, the Church, his board, his dog, the girl scouts on the corner, the graduates in his life, the man driving his taxi, and the waiter bringing him his meal.

He gave breaks too. Gave them to those who asked for them, those who didn't, the ones who deserved them, and the ones who should've gotten a kick in the pants. He once fired a man for stealing from his company, but assured him that he would make sure he got another job. A break.

Michael's had his own company for the past four years. He's aged more in this time than any other in his life. His hair has become an even blend of gray and white, a stark difference from its original charcoal. He knits and pulls at his eyebrows whenever he reads, be it the credit card bill, the newspaper, or his wine magazine. His foremost thoughts belong to his daughters, two of whom are at his alma mater. He's stressed because neither of them have financial aid because they're both smart but not smart enough, and he makes enough but not enough but apparently too much. And he has his youngest still, and she wants to go to college, and oh my God his oldest is graduating this year.

She has a serious boyfriend.

And God, that rhyme, that Notre Dame rhyme, "ring by spring" they say.

The bride's dad gets to foot the bill.

Abby Schlehuber hails from Carlsbad, CA, a small town just outside of San Diego. She attends Cathedral Catholic High School, where she is a rising senior. On sunny days, Abby enjoys golfing and reading by the pool, pastimes that were given to her by her parents.

48

“Because I’m From There” The counselor at my college orientation asks where I’m from.

My go-to response is always, “South Texas.”

He asks, “Where in South Texas?”

“Edinburg.”

“You’re from there?”

He says as if there were a place not worth living.

As if there were a place not worthy of existence.

As if there were a place not good enough to be given it’s own name.

“Yeah, I’m from there.” I tell him.

“And you want to know what else is there?”

There are kids that drop out of high school not because they want to but because they have to help their parents pay the bills.

There are kids who spend hours on the school bus while you’re in your Bentleys, Lamborghinis, Maseratis, and Ferraris.

There are kids whose hands bleed working in the fields just to feed the mouths of you and your upper-class families.

There’s a lot to go through because we don’t mess around.

But I don’t wanna confuse you, so listen up now.

Instead of the Mall of America, La Pulga is where it is Flea Market in English in case you failed your Spanish pop quiz You got Starbucks and Ku Klux, We got margaritas and Zetas You got aunts and uncles, We got tíos and tías We be vatos, latinos, y chicanos sizzlin’ fajita tacos, with a bit of tapatío y tabasco You see, I’m from South Texas…

And I’d like to see you try to keep up with our Folklorico and Cumbia and not trip over your feet I’d like to see you dance with all the colors of the wind There are things that I would never expect you to understand 49

Like the way we pray to la Virgen de Guadalupe when the sun goes down en el nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo Like the way our parents spend years saving up for quinceañeras to see their little girl walk down the dance floor in her dream dress Like the way the kids in middle school wanted to bubble in “White” instead of “Mexican” on those standardized tests And this is how we lived.

Ashamed of the skin that covers up what’s really inside Not taking higher level classes because what’s the point if you can’t even afford to go to a University So we improvise start selling tacos on the street corners soup kitchens for all the foreigners Mami’s taking up that job around the corner We be wavin’ down cars on the street like Hey, mírame.

I mean something, too.

Those kids that come up to you in restaurants and ask you to buy those candy apples aren’t asking so that they can use that money to go buy whatever they want they’re asking simply so that they can get by And sometimes getting by isn’t as easy as it seems Because you see, I’m from South Texas And we’ll never forget Selena She was the voice for our people We’ll never forget Zapata He was the fighter for our people We’ll never forget Cesar He was the fist for our people And we’ll never forget our people 50

Because we stayed Because we fought Because we survived So the next time you think about asking someone “You’re from there?”

I hope you think twice because I’m from there, and I’m pretty damn proud.

Emily Jennifer Rios is from Edinburg, Texas and attends Edinburg North High School, where she is a rising Junior.

She enjoys various extra curricular activities such as reading books, mock trial, oral interpretation, and slam poetry.

She plans to continue writing in hopes of having a novel published one day.

51

Next Stop They don’t sell train tickets to your future.

Even if they did, wouldn’t know where to get off Accountant Avenue?

Surgeon Street?

Lawyer Lane?

Maybe I’d fall asleep With my book bag for a pillow And wake up 3,000 miles away from my destination This world is shaped on ambition On the need to succeed It’s hard to stay on track When there aren’t places for a soul like me Maybe everyone else has left the station While my train has yet to leave.

Cierra Norman is from New York City. She goes to Talent Unlimited High School for the Performing Arts, where she is an incoming junior. She enjoys writing poetry, singing, and playing basketball.

52

Wish You Were Here Look up the map there are two continents the blue makes me blind the distance too short the distance too long We once jogged in the park near my apartment saw the roots, the stream and the byway If you were here, I could hold your hand and run through campus lie on the lush grass field and listen to the voice of birds and the song of wind If you were here, I could walk with you arm in arm step on the red wide stairs at Brookings Hall and see the sunshine on the flags and flowers on the trees We once went to the book studio beside your house stayed for the whole afternoon with two cups of coffee and two books If you were here, I could bring you to the cafe in the library sit in the high plastic chairs and read the plots of stories and smiles on our faces If you were here, I could stand on the stage only with you place a huge blank notebook on the floor and write the sweet of the days and fantasy of the life with you We once counted down together on the last day of the year, a Saturday waited for the fireworks which lightened the sky If you were here, I could rest on your shoulder on Saturday night at the Brookings drive watch the fireworks from a narrow stone path and embrace

53

the joy of parties and the woe of homesickness Switch on my phone here lies your text "Miss you, wait you� the image too clear the image too vague

Xiaohan Lin (Sharon) is from Shenzhen, China. She goes to Shenzhen Foreign Languages School, where she is a rising senior. She enjoys writing, dancing and traveling.

54

The Pain There is pain in my eyes but a smile on my lips No one hears my cries on the inside They don’t know how much it hurts I can’t let them near me They can’t know the pain I’m experiencing I can’t let them see the real me They can’t know this smile is fake I don’t want any sympathy Can this pain go away?

Can someone take this pain away?

I need the pain to stop hurting me Too much stressing Too many lies I’m dying on the inside I continue to wonder when will life get better Until then my smile, the way I talk, laugh and The rest of my actions will remain the same By the same I mean fake If you didn’t already get the picture Do you understand that nothing can ever be real With all of this pain in the way?

It gets worse each day But they tell me it’s okay Why do they lie to me?

I know the truth It will never be okay and things will never be the same The pain is killing me slowly So can somebody save me?

Demetris Lambert is from Chicago, Illinois. She goes to Rowe Clark Math & Science Academy. She enjoys writing, dancing, and traveling.

55

Dear Writer's Block Dear Writer's Block, I'm at a loss for words.

I still remember the night we first met. October of my junior year. An unbearable month. I spent countless nights and early mornings slaving over vectors, graphs, presidents, cells and rhetorical strategies. I spent hours lying awake in a silent house, accompanied by strong cold winds and shadows of tree branches. My only friends were inanimate texts and heavy stress; the exhaustion never relented. We met the night I was trying to write a dreaded essay on Othello. Shakespeare had always given me trouble, but this time Iago and Cassio stole the hours I should have spent dreaming. I sat wide awake while the moon sunk and orange and pinks bled into the sky.

I thought it was sweet that you stayed up all night with me, keeping me company. It was new, I was desperate; I needed anyone. You knew where to find me, but you waited a while before coming back. I think you didn't want to seem too interested. Then one night, you stole a date I was supposed to spend with Hester Prynne, Dimmesdale, Pearl, and Chillingworth. I couldn't have fun writing about that damn scarlet color anyway; instead we spent the night watching the blue spacekeeper flash on and off a blank Word document. Things got hot and heavy, and pretty soon we were moving too fast. Every night was a new adventure rebelling against my entire English curriculum. You and I, the real lovers, poisoned by third wheelers: the research paper, a self designed essay, a definition assignment, and that damn satire thing I never got the hang of. We spent more time together than I did with anyone else.

Over the last couple days, I've realized we're moving in separate directions. No longer matching puzzle pieces, we don't complete each other anymore. I, looking to navigate and achieve upper academia; you, not even able to commit to a future together. I simply don't see how we could make this work.

Now, I realize I'm completely consumed by you. Writing a paper about not being able to write a paper?

You're so controlling, and it's only about you. I just don't think we're on the same page anymore.

I've realized this hasn't even been about me. I'm not special. You just want a student, any student.

You're using me to get experience before graduating Creative Slowdown School. Didn't the time we snuggled for three weeks under a blank sheet instead of Jay Gatsby mean anything to you?

My mom taught me how to find the one. She taught me what to look for in a lover, and I've been mistaking my addiction to our late, coffee-filled nights for something more. I just craved the company. This pales in comparison to true love. When was the last time you completed my sentence anyway?

Of course, I will never forget our times together. While I leave you responsible for my migraines, added stress, and academic disasters, I think we should still be friends.

It's not me, it's you.

Well I guess this is goodbye, Charli P.S. I left your stuff on the sidewalk.

P.P.S. I just wrote a 500 word essay on how over you I am.

Charli Harris is from Buffalo Grove, Illinois. She goes to Adlai E. Stevenson High School, where she is a rising senior.

She enjoys reading, writing, dancing, and one day she hopes to travel to the moon.

56

Coffee-Free It’s been ten years, but her order hasn’t changed.

I didn’t think it was her at first. She had darker hair back in high school, more of a dirty-blonde color. But there, that morning both of us in line at Starbucks, it was as bright and light as the future everyone hoped to find out here in New York. Maybe, I wondered, it was the same hope that brought her here.

Her curls were what let me know it was her. Her hair is naturally curly, but I always hated it that way.

Truth be told, it probably made her look too good for me to know how to handle, but I always found the disorder of her curls extremely frustrating. Most of the time, she straightened it. When she did, she let the world see her two bright eyes perched over a peppering of freckles on her cheeks. And, when she didn’t, her hair fell like a net over her face, leaving people to imagine what may lie caught in it, rather than telling them on her own.

I’m behind her in line, so she doesn’t notice me. And, even if I wasn’t, chances are she wouldn’t see me either. And that’s not because the room is brimming wall to wall with every kind of early morning, irritated citydweller around. She was always an oblivious girl. On my more frustrated days, I had compared Sadie to the little girl in thriller movies who just kind of stares at an incoming truck in the middle of the road and screams without ever moving.

I make a face as I step forward in line. Was I really that mean? And that accurate?

So when’s the point when I act like I just noticed her and then call her over to say hi? Do I wait till she turns around, or until she walks off with her caramel macchiato?

I try to guess how many of those caramel macchiatos, no whip, I must have purchased for her during those eight months. She loved coffee. Or, like many people, she loved loving coffee. She adored the reputation of fast-paced words, sudden exhilaration, and respectable busyness of someone who always had a cup in their hands. She loved coffee. I hated coffee.

I should probably say hi. It’s common courtesy. We’re both adults now. It doesn’t matter that she drove me crazy for those eight months. She’s Sadie, and I did care about her, at one point. Things just got tangled along the way.

She stands waiting for her drink, staring intently at her phone and biting her lip. I wonder, fleetingly, whom she may be texting. It’s been so long since we’ve talked, I don’t know who she could be orbiting around now. It didn’t take me long into my time with her to realize she continually surrounded herself with people sharper than her, people who would take a stand, walk off, and finish the fight. That was her type. And not just for guys, but friends, too. She needed to repeat off of a teleprompter, to piggyback onto any opinion around her.

She notices her drink is ready before they even have to call her name, which I’m surprised by. I wait to see if she sits down, and, when she does, I decide I’ll join her.

So, after my drink’s prepared, my right hand rigid and damp around my coffee-free frappuccino, I head to where she sits at the side of the room.

“Sadie?” I ask, acting completely bewildered and caught off guard, of course.

She moves her head back to face me. And, when she does, she does something I don’t expect. She laughs. And it sounds everything and nothing like it used to.

“Andrew?” She exclaims as she rises from her stool to embrace me. She hasn’t grown at all since senior year, so it feels strangely like hugging a ghost, the ghost of someone I thought I left at 2 AM in a Starbucks parking lot many years ago.

“How have you been?” I ask, genuinely interested. You stop asking about your high school exes after your freshman year of college. After that, you’re both too far along on your own paths to find an intersection. Up until now, I thought that was true. I thought I would never see Sadie again. It was a bitter-sweet reality I had come to accept.

“I’m good! What are you doing here?” She asks as she sits down.

The question is so direct, so un-Sadie, that I find myself sitting down. I take the seat opposite of her, “Uh, I live just a few blocks from here actually. What about you? Last I heard you were at Berkeley for grad school.”

“Mmm, yeah,” she hums, like she has just been caught in the headlights of a bright memory, “I loved it there. I met some great people, my one friend is actually working at NBC right now, which is awesome. You would’ve liked her. She’s a big fan of television and producing and all that. If I could, I never would’ve left Berke57

ley. But I really wanted to get a job in the city. I have an interview today, actually.”

“Oh that’s cool,” I say, doing my best to keep the friendly air steady, “For where?”

“Scholastic, just a few blocks down. It’s for an Advertising Associate.”

My Frappuccino almost travels back out of my mouth. I laugh, “You’re kidding? I’m at Scholastic, too.

I’m one of the assistant editors.”

Sadie laughs, and, as she does, she runs her fingers through her curls. The light dances off a small diamond on one of her fingers.

As her curls bounce away from her face, those same sea-foam green eyes meet mine, warm as ever, “Small world, I guess,” she says softly.

I nod, “Small world.”

“I haven’t seen someone from high school in months,” Sadie says, “The last time I saw someone was Clare Hallworth down the shore last summer.”

“Clare?” I repeated with a hearty laugh, “You are kidding me. What’s she like?”

“Well, for starters, she has four kids,” Sadie said, “Me and my girlfriend went up to her once I knew for sure that it was her. Apparently she still catches up with Maggie every week.”

“Birds of a feather,” I ask, “You know, it’s surprising the people who keep in touch.”

She nods, “Yeah, it really is.”

It’s silent for a moment while she flips her phone dismissively so that her screen faces the table. “So, what about you? Every time I go to Barnes and Noble I wait to see your name somewhere. Are you still writing?”

I laugh, “You remembered?”

Her eyebrows form a line, “Of course I remember!” The sincerity in the words sparks some guilt in me, but she keeps talking, “You haven’t given up on it, have you?”

“No, I don’t think I could ever stop,” I say, “I will always be writing. Even if I don’t have a book.”

“That’s good,” She says, “You always knew what you wanted to do. You had such a good idea. I had no clue.”

“Yeah, but it worked out though,” I say, gesturing to her hand.

She looks down curiously for a moment, then her finger bumps over her ring, “Oh yeah, I guess it did.”

We both jump in our seats as a fist knocks on the window outside. A short, brunette girl with small, blue eyes and a round face stands outside almost apologetically. She points at the watch hanging loosely on her wrist.

“Oh that’s my friend Anne,” Sadie says hurriedly as she stands up in a flourish and swings around into her coat, “She…” “Works in the building, she’s the main secretary,” I finish for her.

Sadie acknowledges, “You know around the building, I guess.”

I smile, “Yeah, but, hey, who knows, you might too soon.”

She pops her collar to lift her hair out from under it. As she does, her hair rises and falls like a wave of fine, woven threads, and I find myself admiring the beauty of it. The light falls on her as she waves, and her ring winks at me in the light as she lifts it.

“Oh, I hope so. You know, it was nice catching up, but I’m going to be late. But hey, maybe I’ll see you around?”

I take a moment to respond, and, by the time I do, she’s nearly out the door.

“Maybe,” is all I can say.

I pause a moment to think about that girl too afraid to drive people places, the girl who no one knew much about cause she was ‘too shy’, the girl who wanted so badly to be heard, but never opened her mouth. And then I think about friends at NBC and Anne and diamonds and coffee-free frappuccinos.

Laughing a little to myself as I stand up, I wipe a napkin across the wet ring left from her drink on the table, and walk out.

Michael Iannaconi is from Long Valley, New Jersey. He goes to Gill St. Bernard’s school in Gladstone, where he is a rising senior. He enjoys reading, writing, and playing with his dogs.

58

Pink Thread I found it upon a shelf Of light-stained wood A skeleton of trees once so sentient It exists with the beauty and grace Of an abandoned wedding dress Its fabric woven with love and lust Lay dusty in the attic of a divided home A soft pink notebook Standing alone Held rigid with a single thread Through the binding as thin As your midnight promises And as delicate as peach blossoms trampled Beneath the feet of a black dog It has cream paper occupied with faint blue lines Like straight veins through my skin Or small roads laid out like grids Through fields of golden wheat on untouched land These lines await the presence of a lonely traveler One who drags his feet And bleeds from his mouth Forming a pattern of thoughts laced with pain In the dust of my mind And so my heart obliges Becoming a wanderer Hitchhiking through the pages It drains onto the paper Pink thread stained red Soaked by memories of innocence And of mistakes The notebook now sits upon the dirty floor Dark stains fill each page And next to them Lay my beating heart Stolen by thieves And stabbed by murderers A ruby encased in flesh Torn from its home Yet it still bleeds with a steady rhythm Pouring onto pages Once so pure

Claire Adams is a rising junior at Sage Ridge School in Reno, Nevada. She enjoys participating in debate, choir, and writing in her free time. Claire hopes to study at Vassar College and pursue a career in law in the future.

59

Finding the Life Wispy tuffs of dandelions float unassumingly, unaware of how random their patterns of drift are in relation to the seemingly planned actions of birds and squirrels in the distance. The birds are harder to spot from this field of vision; but their chirps and melodious songs are clues to where they are, or where they might be going on their flying adventure. Adventure seems like such an abstract concept while sitting here, eyes wandering but never focusing. The stage, of which I am perched, from a distance, would seem uninteresting and monochromatic. When in actuality it is a living entity. Dark veins pulsate and reconnect like synapses between nerve endings. Fragile craters and chips lack fulfillment from their missing piece. The stage is alive, the stage remembers calculating dance steps with precision that would impress surgeons and harmonious lyrics absorbed by uneven red bricks. Or so it is assumed. To know a history or understand a past is like sharing secrets. But these, seen from quick glances, are guarded and unknown to my on-looking eyes.

This is unproductive. Thinking up lives; past, present, and future for what cannot comprehend the concept of time, or don’t need to. This is useless, leaving would be better for more than one reason, yet, to leave feels unnerving. A swelling in my chest confirms my doubts. So I stay. Because to leave this scene, that is so often observed but rarely lived, would feel like a loss of life.

Or so I thought. Grey hued forms move sluggishly and lethargically over the previously sun-drowned space. How naïve to think that people would not appreciate the warmth of a beam of light filtered through dancing leaves or bouts of random color in auspicious flowers, when witnessing the rain falling blankly on multicolor stone paths being more trouble to travelers and passer-bys than anything else. Misty dew coats unsuspecting foliage. Yet however surprising rainfall finds itself among plant life, they greet each drop with a thirst for its unpredicted present, treated to a meal the quenches a deep-rooted need embedded in thick soil. Earth so rich, the deepest hue of brown almost black under shadowing limbs.

Although the plants may be grateful for a gentle mist-like perfume, it is less suitable for pen and paper.

And though the longing to explore the secret lives of insects fluttering through both the Earth and manmade still prevails, work, or at least heavy contemplation, is best done in dry conditions, like in this situation. I am sure there are many professionals who enjoy, if not prefer, a more obviously humid climate, swimmers for example.

In light of recent events, the library is the setting of today’s escapade. While yesterday was focused on witnessing the life in the surroundings, the library is full of more dead things. Dark wood uprooted from a remote location growing in effort to reach the highest hovering cloud, now saddled on the legs of pleather chairs in varying shades of green. But not the living greens of freshly watered hibiscus stems or precisely pointed thistles of hidden bushes. In many ways the trees taunt me, lurking steadily on the opposite side of a glass wall, mocking the irony of systematic panels compared to the organic, dancing limbs of Bald Cypresses and Valley Forge Elms.

Tattooed pages and woven cotton spines complain to their shelf mates of a majestic past life, cut down in their prime. Yet these cries are not wholly sullen. Their relief comes from their ability to tell stories. Stories of places with a beauty that isn’t found in their missing roots. They rejoice in the feeling they evoke being able to have a protective and comforting nature without being natural. Feeling unbound in a second life after death.

Madeline Amonick is a rising junior at Grandview High School in Aurora, Colorado. Madeline enjoys story telling in all forms including books, spoken word, movies, or television.

60

Falling Rocks, Flying Birds In the morning, when a cool mist fell over the prairie grasses, and woolen clouds stretched across the sky, they searched the meadow, using long sticks to push aside the underbrush in hope--or fear--of revealing a child sized foot. As the sun rose high, fighting its way past the clouds, burning away the wetness from the air, they ventured into the woods, dogs on leashes, heads to the ground, tails still as the breeze. When the sun set, washing the plains in a vivid red, they roved the riverside, lanterns on the bows of their boats, long paddles brushing past the pale bellies of fish and reaching fingers of weeds, but not a body.

And when at last it was dark, and the fog returned, creeping through the streets and obscuring the stars, they turned to each other and admitted at last what they had always known: Simon was gone, and should he return, it would never be the same.

--A rock drops into the canyon. Where it lands, a flock of birds rises from the bushes, stark against the roiling grey sky.

--I had known Simon. He and I sat in the back of the schoolhouse together- sometimes he’d let me cheat off his spelling quizzes. I wasn’t any good at spelling, though I was better than even the eighth graders in math.

Simon...not so much. During tests he’d fist his hands into his curly dark hair, staring at the paper blankly. I’d try to help him, tossing notes onto his desk, but he’d crumple them up without looking at them.

“If I do well, I want it to be because of me,” he explained one day, sitting on the swing set in front of my house.

“Why not just do well?” I asked, kicking a clod of dirt over a patch of clovers. “It’s a lot easier.”

He was silent for a while. Then, with blue eyes fixated on the ground, he said, “I just want to be proud of myself, I guess.” And then, even softer, “Hey, Peter…”

Simon and his pride. If there were a fatal flaw I’d have pegged on him, it wouldn’t have been that. It wouldn’t have been anything at all. To everyone, even my own parents, he was the golden child. I couldn’t count how many times my father had slammed his hands on the table at dinner, lamenting, “Peter, why couldn’t you just be more like Simon…”

Unfortunately for my father, our similarities were as few and far between as the devil and the deep blue sea.

--A rock drops into the canyon. A rock drops…

--That night, at dinner, we were silent. My parents were part of the group who set out to look for Simon’s body, and the truth the adults of our town had realized weighed heavily on us. It had been a long time since a child in the town had died. When my parents were kids, a girl in their class had drowned in the lake by the canyon in the woods. They hadn’t found the body until years later, when some fisherman dredged her skeleton up in his net.

I’d seen the lake she drowned in- it was nothing special, blue as the lowest curve of the sky on the horizon, strangely still, sheltered by the trees around it. But it had always seemed a bit sinister, and so most people avoided it, sharing whispers that the girl’s ghost haunted the shoreline, waiting to pull someone in.

Remembering that, I shivered. My mother glanced my direction, and her mouth pinched. “It is sad about Simon,” she said softly.

“He might just be lost,” my little brother, Thomas, suggested. He looked like me- all ginger hair and freckles, though his eyes were blue where mine were brown. “I think he’ll be back.”

My mother looked helplessly at our father, who simply sighed and said, “Maybe so, Tom.” I focused on my plate, methodically smashing my peas into a green paste. In the background, Thomas continued. “I heard about a kid who was raised by wolves in the woods. It could be like that. Or, maybe, I think, he could have run away, or be exploring-” Peter, I think it’s going to rain, shouldn’t we head back soon?“Shut up, Thomas,” I snapped, letting my fork clang onto my plate.

“Language,” my mother hissed. I rolled my eyes at her, and then spoke to Thomas, spitting the words out with such force I almost bit my tongue.

61

“Simon’s dead. He’s not hiding, or sleeping, or lost, he’s dead. And they’re never gonna find his body, because it’s probably at the bottom of a river, or it’s been eaten, or-” “Peter.” My father stood suddenly, the screech of his chair on the stone floor silencing me. “Go to your room.”

I glanced at my plate. “I wasn’t hungry anyway,” I mumbled, and left the kitchen, stomach churning.

The image of the birds against the grey sky flashed up behind my eyelids as I stumbled up the stairs.

-“I’ll race you to the lake.”

“Can’t we just catch beetles?” He’s already out of breath.

“Where’s the fun in that?” I’m running before I stop talking.

--My mother came up when they finished dinner. She didn’t open the door, just spoke outside of it, in the gentle, insistent way of hers. “Peter, it really is a tragedy what happened with Simon. Imagine how his family must be feeling. That’s no way to talk about him…”

--“Peter,” he says, “I think it’s going to rain. Shouldn’t we head back soon?”

“We’ll go in a bit.”

“But by then it will already-” “Stop worrying, I know a shortcut. We’ll be fine.”

--Three days later, they found Simon’s body.

It was caught between two rocks in the river, carrion swirling above it, like a smoke signal to the fishermen. It took a team of boats to wrestle it from where it was wedged, the water having bloated the flesh until it was squeezing out of the gap in the rocks like toothpaste. They brought it back into town covered in a sheet, so I never saw the way his limbs bent and twisted, the way his round face was purple and grey, his lips like two fat worms, his eyes open and staring, the blood vessels popped so the blue iris was now indistinguishable from the pupil.

But when they brought it back, marching it into the church, where the priest would bless the corpse, I stood on my tiptoes and saw a single white, wrinkled hand peeking out from under the sheet, fingers swollen into sausages, and his palms, torn and bloody, where he had scrambled for a hold before falling. Please, Peter…

I closed my eyes and shook my head.

Really, what did anyone expect? Simon was never the most athletic. He stumbled his way through baseball, fumbled every football game we played, hardly able to even catch a ball without losing his breath. He was just tripping and tumbling his way to a young death, yet everyone pretended that they didn’t see it coming.

I did.

Every day after school, we’d go to the woods past the prairie. Every day, I’d challenge him to race me to the lake where that girl had drowned so long ago. For almost a year, he would give up before reaching it, but I kept pushing him, not wanting to watch him being picked last for teams anymore, not wanting him to lose or ever have to fist his hands in his hair in frustration ever again. I would give him his pride. I would deliver what he told me that day on the swing.

And then, one day, we did reach the lake together. Simon beat me there, and stood on the beach triumphantly, hands on his hips, beaming.

“Getting slow, Peter?” he teased.

“Maybe you’re just getting lucky,” I suggested. Some discomfort wormed in my stomach. I hadn’t expected him to win.

“Isn’t that what you say whenever I do better than you on spelling tests?” Simon crossed his arms now, taking a step back towards the lake.

“Didn’t your mother teach you to not be rude?” I shoved him, harder than necessary, on his shoulders. I was almost satisfied when he tripped back, landing on his butt in the lake.

“Oh, gross!” He sprang up, splashing me. “Didn’t some girl drown here?”

“It’s not like she’s here anymore,” I retorted.

“Her body, at least.”

62

“Don’t be weird, Simon.”

As we explored the lakeshore, dark grey clouds began to swell on the horizon. I was busy digging in the mud for frogs, but Simon lingered above me, hands twisting the bottom of his shirt. “Peter,” he said. “I think it’s going to rain. Shouldn’t we head back soon?”

“We’ll go in a bit.”

“But by then it will already-” “Stop worrying, I know a shortcut. We’ll be fine.”

He wouldn’t stop nagging me, and when fat raindrops started to ripple against the lake’s surface, I finally gave in. The mud was more sludge at that point, anyway. But Simon still complained. “We’ll be soaking wet by the time we get home. We should have gone when I said it would rain.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, knowing he was right anyway. “I said that I know a shortcut. Let’s go.”

The lake was fed by a river, which looped around the town on one side, running through a deep gorge on the other. To get to the lake, one usually had to walk across the fields and through the woods- but by simply crossing the canyon, one could get home in half the time. I led Simon to a place where a tree had fallen across the gap, the rain falling steadily harder, until we were both shivering.

“W-we just climb along the tree,” I explained, pointing a shaky finger at the mess of roots we faced, now muddy from the rain. “The town is just on the other side.”

Simon looked at me, eyebrows creased. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” I lied. “I’ve done this a hundred times before.”

I clambered over the roots, my feet slipping a bit on the wet bark. I dug my fingers into the wood so hard that I felt splinters push into my skin, but little by little I inched across the gap, the blood rushing in my ears mirroring the water below. I reached the other side, panting, and slid onto the rock, smiling weakly at Simon.

“See? It’s perfectly safe.”

His face was pale. He edged forward, his toe kicking a rock off the edge of the canyon. It tumbled down, upsetting a flock of birds where it landed. They rose into the sky, stark black against the roiling grey clouds. Unsteadily, he hauled himself up onto the trunk. One of his hands slipped and he yelped.

“Don’t worry!” I called. I replayed the image of the rock dropping in my head, and my lungs constricted.

“I’m okay....” he responded. Slowly, he started to crawl across the tree, my heart pounding in beat with the rain, falling quicker and quicker.

He almost made it.

A foot skipped out from under him when he was barely two feet from my edge. His arms shot out to cling to the trunk, and his body swung to the side like a pendulum, until it was just his hands, digging into the bark like claws, that held him up, his feet hanging uselessly in the air.

“Peter,” he begged, eyes wide and mouth small and blue, “Please.”

I stood, frozen. The rock dropped a thousand times behind my eyes and into my stomach, the black birds swirling around my head like static. I remembered pushing him into the lake. I saw my hands on his shoulders. I saw him tipping over in slow motion.

I remembered the perfect scores on his spelling tests. I remembered my parents lamenting our lack of similarities. I remembered Simon, on the shore of the lake, hands on his hips, beaming at his win. At my loss.

I remembered the sunset on the swings.

I croaked, “Simon--” at the same time that his fingers gave out, the nails torn and bloody, and his body plummeted down like that rock, the rain and the rush of the water drowning out any scream he may have made.

--I didn’t go to the funeral.

--“Hey, Peter?”

“Yeah?”

We sit on the swing set outside my house. My foot scuffs a mound of dirt, and Simon sighs heavily.

“I wish I could be more like you.”

Renee Colby is a rising senior at Ladue Horton Watkins High School in St. Louis, Missouri. When she’s not writing cliché young adult novels, she enjoys a capella, speech and debate, overlarge sweaters and efficient water bottles.

63

Peonies I chose the house because it was hidden.

Tucked away in the outskirts of hilly Westchester, I almost drove right past it the first time I explored the neighborhood. My gaze was only torn from the road when a bolt of lightning menacingly split the sky. Slamming on the breaks, I whipped my head to catch a glimpse, but it had already vanished into the smell of rubber.

All that remained was a faint streak across the slate grey sky, while an accompanying rumble of thunder made the earth shudder.

This natural electric phenomenon, however, was not the only thing curious enough to catch my eye: looming in the shadows of a whooshing wall of trees stood a silent, Victorian-style house that leaned heavily to one side, too tired to stand up straight.

Either the house was sinking into the lawn, or the thick grasses were swallowing it alive. Its stooped front porch was barely visible above the claws of the suffocating underbrush; the wood paneling was streaked with fungus and silt. But despite the disheveled appearance of the place, something about it seemed inviting. I liked the peeling, white paint on the picket fence out front, and I liked the gnarly vine fingers that crept steadily to the molding roof. But the feature I liked most was the seclusion. The only thing keeping the abode from completely isolating itself from civilization was the crooked sign out front that read: “For Rent.”

I had planned to keep browsing for a new home for the rest of the evening, but I was easily dissuaded after one glance at the sky. Above the sagging building, massive clouds the color of bruises threatened nasty weather. The first drops of rain were already splattering across my windshield as I parked at the side of the house and grabbed my suitcase. I rushed to the front door, twigs and crabgrass crunching underfoot, figuring there was no use in contacting the owner; I didn’t plan on staying for more than a few days. Just how long could my wife hold a grudge, anyway?

To my surprise, the house was unlocked. I guess I should’ve found this slightly suspicious, but I was too overjoyed with my luck to pause for such formalities.

The door was heavy and rusting on its hinges, so I had to use my entire body weight to send it creaking back into place. Once safely sealed inside, I was greeted by silence. The cavernous foyer was vacant of everything except humidity, which seemed to thicken with every inhalation. It was so muggy the naked walls were sweating, and patches of water damage were spreading like pit stains. Gently setting down my bags as to not disturb the stillness, I drifted to the windows at the far wall. Beyond the vast collection of insect carcasses on the sill, a midnight black lake stretched for miles, writhing and churning like a thousand souls struggling to climb out of a pit.

The first night in the house, I waited out the storm underneath those windows, watching the water claw at the beach. I savored the heat from the crackling fireplace while grey sheets of rain slashed at the glass. It must’ve been past one o’clock when a despondent voice suddenly drifted to me in a current of dust particles.

The voice was soft and clearly female, but I couldn’t make out what it was saying over the roar of the tempest— though the hairs on the back of my neck still prickled at the sound. Even though I knew it was impossible, I cast a glance over my shoulder to check if she had followed me there: Elizabeth. But all that stared back at me was darkness; there was no sign of any woman. I slid deeper into my chair and convinced myself that the leaking house was playing tricks on me.

I wasn’t sure how long I was supposed to stay away; Elizabeth didn’t specify. The next morning, I debated giving her a ring, but quickly decided against it. The day was too beautiful to spoil sitting around the phone, waiting for an invitation to come home. She had never been one for apologies—mostly because I was usually the one with the blame.

On a whim, I separated myself from the chair I had half-slept on and exited the house. My car was glistening in the sun with the last of the raindrops, and the morning light was posed so perfectly that I longed to capture it in paint. I gathered as many brushes and empty canvases from the trunk as I could and started out.

The hours slipped away easily. When I finally I set my brush down to admire the day’s work, I was hit with a wave of crippling thirst. A startled glance at my watch revealed that it was already late afternoon. I hurriedly packed my belongings into the crook of my arm and navigated my way across the rocky beach—what if I had missed a call from Elizabeth?

A gentle breeze accompanied me on the lakeside trek back to the house. I inhaled deeply, filling my 64

lungs with the scent of summertime and foliage. There was no denying it was a beautiful day. The clouds had exhausted their supply of fierce rains and a pastel blue sky was finally visible. The serenity of the scene reminded me of a painting I had been particularly proud of, and I was so filled with satisfaction at the day’s productivity that I almost felt like whistling; however, the notion quickly escaped my mind as I approached that peeling picket fence.

I halted mid-step. At the far edge of the unkempt lawn, a figure was bent over a line of shrubs. When she stood up, my face went pale. The box of acrylics slipped from under my arm and burst open on the grass.

I was well enough hidden by the boughs of the trees to not be noticed, so I paused a moment to collect my supplies and observe the woman. She was short and gaunt and had a wan face that was unfamiliar to me, and since I was averse to strangers, I buried my face into my acrylic box before fast-walking toward the front door, hoping that if I appeared to be in a hurry she wouldn’t bother me. My heart was shattered when she looked up from her shrub-inspecting and lifted a shriveled arm to block the sun.

“Hallo!” she called, squinting at me through two eyes as dark as raisins. “Is this a new face?”

I attempted to free a hand enough to open the door, but my body was trembling so violently that my freshly painted canvas tumbled to the floor and I swore loudly.

The woman next door didn’t hear me. “What’s that?” She shook her head. “If you want to be heard, son, you have to speak up. Don’t you know your ears are the first to go when you’re my age?”

She was poised with one hand daintily resting on her hip, a pair of garden plyers dangling from her bony fingers. Clutched in the other was a bouquet of bulbous blooms.

“Can I help you?” I asked warily.

“That’s awful kind of you to ask, but I think your landscape needs more help than I do! Just how long have you inhabited this address, anyway?”

“Not even for a day.”

She tsked through her thin, papery lips. “That explains the neglected state of your peonies. I’m afraid the only attention they’ve received in the past two months has come from local deer. You’re lucky I came trimming today. If they had been left to themselves for another week, they might’ve enveloped the entire front lawn!”

The afternoon was sickeningly humid, and beads of sweat trickled down the back of my shirt. I was itching to shut myself inside the house and down a glass of water. “If you don’t mind my asking,” I began, “do you belong to this part of town?”

A snort-like laugh burst from her mouth, revealing a set of jaundice-yellow teeth. “Do I belong here?” she repeated. “Merciful heavens—you didn’t realize you have a next-door neighbor?” She pointed a waxy finger toward the tree line behind her, and I had to squint my eyes to discern a hut camouflaged by years’ worth of fungal growth. It looked as though a human hand hadn’t touched it for eons, and I almost didn’t believe her; however, she diverted my attention before I had the chance to question her.

“Will you be staying here for a while?” she asked.

“With any luck, no.”

“Ah.” She looked mildly disappointed. “No one ever does.”

Her offhand remark unexpectedly struck a chord of interest. “Why’s that?” I moved a step closer, but faltered when my eyes settled on the side of her neck. Festering in the beating rays of the sun, an abysmal gash was attempting to seal itself against an ooze of mysterious, orange substance. The flesh around the wound was brimming with gobs of half-dried blood, and the sight of it made me feel faint.

“Oh, you don’t know?” Her smile wavered, but her eyes were still eerily animated. I worried whether I should inform her on the state of her neck. “People are afraid to settle down on this side of the lake, and rightfully so. There’s a prison over there, and every so often a criminal gets loose by crossing that foul-smelling tar lake.

“The papers say it’s just a silly rumor, the fools. I’ve seen plenty of shadows pass through my backyard before—and I’m no delusional, old hag! All my neighbors moved because they saw them, too, but I’m too fragile to transport. I’ve got a bad hip, and besides—I wouldn’t want to leave these peonies.”

I was only half-listening to what she was saying. When she talked her neck muscles contracted, causing the wound to open and close like a mouth coughing up mucous.

“But they’re only petty thieves. They’ll leave you alone—so long as you leave a light in the window to let 65

them know someone’s home.” She paused. I stared at her neck. “That’s the problem, though. I get so lonely here... Sometimes I consider striking out the candle and waiting for them to enter.”

The conversation seemed to be waning. Overwhelmed with nausea, I weakly stumbled toward the door.

“Don’t forget to tend to your peonies!” she reminded me. I closed the door on her voice, and once inside, instinctively reached with one hand to feel the side of my own neck. The skin was unblemished, though my legs gave out as a phantom blade traced an arc into my squirming flesh.

The woman wandered through my thoughts for the rest of that afternoon and into the evening. It bothered me later that I never caught her name. I might’ve called the closest hospital to see if she had been in recently. Should I call? I glanced at my phone, which was lying idly an inch from my hand. Then, with a fist in my chest, I realized Elizabeth hadn’t called.

All the way into the heart of the night, I worried myself sick. I worried about my marriage, and I worried about that gash. I was so occupied with my worrying that I almost didn’t hear the voice fingering its way through the house. I immediately sat up and glanced toward the door, thinking about the thieves and prison across the lake, but the sound was not coming from behind me. No, now it was clear that the soft, low voice was coming from the upper floor, though was it human? I wasn’t sure.

I grabbed my lamp (the lightbulbs in the house had all been strangely ripped from their sockets) and padded to the staircase, pausing at the bottom and perking my ears. The blackness of the house was so deep that it swallowed most sound, but what little drifted to me was enough. The voice was unmistakably human.

Someone was up there, moaning.

Before I knew it, I was standing at the top stair. In the flickering periphery of my lamp, I could just barely make out a narrow corridor lined with sconces that now served as spider nests. One room stood at each end of the carpeted hall, but my attention was solely focused to my left. The moaning was now completely audible, coming from inside that room. But by this point my body refused to move any further. It was paralyzed by a static feeling buzzing like bees in the pit of my stomach. A musty smell emanating from the banister filled my mouth with a wretched, metallic taste. And then at once, I turned and fled down the staircase, as fast as my legs could carry me, and dove into my chair. Until then, I hadn’t noticed how heavily I was breathing. What’s gotten into me, I thought, and the voice stopped.

I left to paint again the next day. The weather was just as pleasant, but the water was choppier. A wave had just crashed ashore when I spied a black car approaching through the spray. It had materialized at the top of a distant hill, and I watched it crawl toward me with brush hovering over the canvas.

The car slunk down the hill at a casual pace, gradually losing speed as it drew closer to my location. Finally, it coasted to a stop directly across from where I stood. The driver’s window was slowly lowered and the officer inside removed his spectacles.

Raising his voice over the din of the lake, he amiably inquired, “Good afternoon, Sir. May I ask what you are up to on this side of the lake?”

I did not think of myself as a suspicious-looking man, so I was taken aback by the question. Fearing that the surprise on my face would make me look guilty, I cleared my throat as innocently as I could. “Well, Officer, my plan was to spend the week painting. I’m vacationing from my post at the accounting firm, you see, and I sometimes like to dedicate myself to art as a means of escaping.”

The officer nodded slowly and pretended to mull over the new information in his head. “That’s interesting,” he said, bored. “I wouldn’t say Westchester is the ideal vacationing spot.”

“I’m not fond of overly populated resorts,” I responded, a tad defensively.

“I guess that’s fair.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed before the officer plucked a manila envelope from the passenger seat and withdrew a black and white sketch. He held it up so that I could see the face in the picture. Hatefully glaring at me was a man with hard features and a sharp nose, like a crow’s beak.

“Have you happened to see this man recently?”

I shook my head. “I’ve only been here for a few days.”

“Well, thanks anyway.” He began to roll up the sketch, but became so impatient with his trembling fingers that he threw it aside. “Sir, I hate to shorten your holiday, but I really must ask you to evacuate the premises. I’m afraid this area is… Uh, unstable at the moment.”

“Has something transpired that I should be concerned about?” I inquired.

66

It took the officer a while to respond, but when he did, all he supplied was: “Nothing to lose sleep over.”

My thoughts wandered to the prison across the lake. I swallowed dryly, and there was that metallic taste again.

The policeman finally caved under his guilt. “Alright. I will tell you the truth, but you must move out— and as soon as possible!”

“I sure hope I will, depending on what’s causing so much of a fuss.”

Apparently, a convict had escaped a couple months ago and the local police had reason to believe that he was taking refuge in the secluded hills of Westchester. The officer assured me, however, that the man in question was primarily a burglar and patrols were thoroughly perusing the area each day. I had no reason to panic.

I’ll be damned, I thought to myself in shock, that delusional, old hag was right! But then I frowned. “What evidence do you have to support the theory that he’s still here in Westchester?”

A startled look passed over his face, and he seemed too disturbed by the answer to regain composure.

His mouth opened as if to speak, but floundered for words.

“What is it?” I noticed an edge of hysteria in my voice. “What? You’re scaring me.”

“There was a body,” the words tumbled out at last, and seized me by the throat. “She was discovered in a house just down the street—the Victorian-looking one. You might’ve passed it on your way here. Her maids found her in a tangle of bedsheets, stabbed in the neck with her own pair of garden plyers.

“It was the first time he killed, and he only did so due to the circumstances: the woman’s possessions were what he was really after. You should’ve seen the way he left the house: picked cleaner than a turkey bone at Christmas dinner.”

The officer was shaking his head now, a horrified look in his eyes as if he was back at the crime scene.

“He even took the lightbulbs.”

I choked on the lead weighing down my tongue, and though it was a muggy day, the back of my neck felt like ice. Shivering, I promised the officer to vacate the area immediately and watched him drive away. I made sure he was out of sight before starting in the direction of the house, the easel and half-painted canvas completely slipping my mind.

When I got to the white picket fence, the old woman wasn’t there. There was no movement around the peonies; in fact, there was no movement at all. Even the leaves on the trees were perfectly still.

Without thinking, I began ascending the staircase. The corridor looked different in daylight, but the banister was still emitting the same musty odor. And as I drew closer to door on the left, the swarm of bees in my stomach churned so madly I could hear the buzzing in my ears. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. I pushed open the door.

The room was depressingly plain. A window across from the door let in enough light to show that the walls were bare except for a few protruding nails where paintings once hung, and layers of dust were collecting on the surfaces of the only two pieces of furniture. The first was a scuffed wooden vanity standing with its drawers extended and empty; the second was an old-fashioned bed frame pushed up against the wall. On top was a yellowing mattress stripped of all sheets, leaving the startling, dark brown stain in the center completely exposed.

There was the reek of peonies, and then I fainted.

Susan Fisher lives in Zionsville, Indiana where she will be a senior at Brebeuf Jesuit Preparatory School this fall.

Along with writing, she also enjoys reading murder mysteries, petting dogs, watching Netflix marathons, baking chocolate desserts and then eating them all in one sitting.

67

The Old House The Old House has eyes The House don’t tell no lies The Old House always listened To me.

I was seen even though I was three The House realized I was wise Even though the adults in my life always told lies So when my chinky eyes widened at the strange sight before me The House and me tried to visualize the scene How obscene For nothing could censor the tension Resonating What the hell is happening? Mommy? Aunty?

Please somebody tell me!

Go to bed, they said.

“But Mommy why you red.”

Please somebody answer me Why is no one listening?

Do y’all care?

I’m right here See my fear See Mama’s tears Sprinkling the tiles I’ve been standing for a long long long long While Hands clutching my sides As I try to escape But it’s far too late There is no more light Mama not in sight Something is not right God, make Mama alright Darkness engulfs me A large wet blanket This silence I can’t take it.

Well… maybe The scene I seen was probably just a Dream Hey, I was just asleep, don’t ask Me The House been watching Yes, the Old House has eyes Impeccable sight Believe me.

Nyla Greene was born in Brooklyn, NY and moved to Spanish Harlem, NY at a young age. She is a rising junior at Columbia Secondary School, attending her sixth year. She enjoys writing poetry or lyrics, music, and the performing arts.

68

The Oracle There are some things that not everyone gets to do or see before they die, but that is not the case for me. I can see anything, at anytime if I wanted to. I don’t know how I can accurately picture something in my mind that I have never laid my eyes upon, that I will never lay my eyes upon, but I do. It’s my superpower, my mother says.

Take the sea, for example. I have never been to the ocean, but I already can perceive its crystal body. I close my eyes and picture my legs taking me to the distant waves drumming the shore of Treasure Island. The ocean pokes at my toes, beckoning to me to dive into its salty riches. My toes then dig into the sand and a wave plummets down on my feet. The strong wind persuades my hair to brush against my smooth skin that has never touched the ocean water. I let out a laugh and charge into the sea, without looking back. My feet imprint on the tiny minerals and the waves now thrash and fight with each other at my knees. I feel a sharp pain climb up my spine as if broken shells are cutting my back where skin meets water. I shiver; I have never been so cold in my entire existence. My long, sandy hair starts to soak the salty water and I get goosebumps as it leaks down my backbone. I keep purging forward and the cold dies down and a warm sensation flows through my body as it realizes its surroundings. It already seems familiar with this sky of Atlantis.

I am almost completely devoured by the sea when I am suddenly pulled back into reality as my eyes open from the sudden stop at a traffic light. I look outside the car window, and I hope to see the ocean that I have just dreamed of, swarming somewhere in the distance, but then, I remember, and I let my white cane do the rest of the talking.

Skylar Fulton is from Independence, Missouri. She goes to Truman High School and will be an upcoming junior. She mostly writes fiction and her favorite authors are Brandon Mull and M.L. Forman.

69

Allison “Get away from there, Allison!” the voice was muffled and weak, which made it obvious it came from their side of the Wall. I approached our side, curious as to who would venture near it. It was forbidden for their people to go near the Wall.

I climbed up on the mossy stone placed near the hole in the Wall. The hole wasn’t big enough for an infant to crawl through. We were lucky that this portion of the Wall was engulfed by tall oak trees with brambles and branches coating the forest floor. The cannon-ball attempt at breaking the Wall down was a total bust, its red brick layered into a thick barrier, tinged with the charred edges created from the discharge of the cannon. At least their government haven’t noticed it’s appearance, and we felt closer to our missing halves.

“Mom, but the kitty…”

I jumped at the voice and its startling similarity to mine. I scrambled to pull my face up to the hole, my hands clenching onto the mossy opening, looking for purchase.

“Allison, you are ten years old, you know the rules, the Wall is forbidden!”

I first saw the mother’s profile. Her hair was long and dark brown, and her nose was straight and pointed. I watched apprehensively, with a churning stomach and a dry mouth, as the mother turned to glance up at the Wall, her hands shaking and wringing nervously. She made eye contact with me and I gasped, nearly falling back.

She screamed.

“Mom?” I whispered at the same time as the other girl. I swept my eyes, searching for the girl with my voice, and my heart lurched when I realized the girl was me and that she was standing close enough to touch the Wall if she reached out. My other half. She was here, after years of waiting, hoping, and praying. She was here.

We could connect. We could be whole again. She. Was. Here.

“Allison!” My mother’s real body screeched, as she scrambled away, her back against a tree as she clung to it with stark white hands. “Come away from the Wall! It’s forbidden!”

“Mom, there’s no one here to see us. I just want the kitty!”

I smiled as I spotted the kitten that my other half had chased into the forest creep along the thin tree branch—a branch that only a kitten could cross—over to my side of the Wall. The kitten connecting us, even though we haven’t touched.

“Allison” I whispered reverently. “I am Allison. My name is Allison. Our name is Allison.”

“Did you hear that?” My other half asked.

“NO! I didn’t hear anything, you didn’t hear anything. You are forbidden to come here ever again! Do you hear me Allison? It’s not safe!”

“Yes mother,” Allison looked around curiously. Her green eyes, my green eyes, our green eyes met. I held my breath, and my stomach flipped.

“Allison,” I whimpered as our mother’s corporal body lunged towards my missing half, grabbing her and yanking her back. Allison’s long blonde hair flew behind her as she was dragged away.

“But mom there was a girl…” The sound of my voice faded away into the distance. My breath released in a rush of disappointed sorrow. I dropped down from the Wall and slid to the ground. Tears streamed down my face as I felt my heart lock into place, frozen and fragile, that a single breath could shatter it. So close. So close to being whole, to being one again, to having our emotions connect again. So close.

“What’s wrong? Daughter speak, please tell me what’s wrong?” I looked up to the same long and dark brown hair, the same long straight and pointed nose of my mother, our mother, Allison’s mother. Except my mother had a large quantity of her corporal bodies emotions, and was missing her other half just like the rest of us stranded outside the Wall.

“I…I saw my other half…she was here,” I murmured, my voice low and cracked with the aftermath of my sobbing. Mother gasped, her shaking hands coming to cover her mouth.

“I,I,I felt the pull…was I here, too?”

I nodded and silent tears started to fall down my mother’s cheek. I pushed myself to my knees and wiped away her tears.

“My name is Allison, and I like kitties. I am stubborn and don’t listen to my mother.” Mom started to laugh, her tears coming faster coating her face in a sheen of water.

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“That doesn’t sound like you, stubborn and all. The kittens I can see, but stubborn?” She gave a watery smile. I attempted to smile, but all I could manage was a lopsided grimace.

“Well, I guess that’s one thing they didn’t strip her of completely…and curiosity.” I hedged. “She saw me mom! We made eye contact! She must have excess curiosity because I mean I have curiosity, so obviously she, I mean we aren’t as curious as we might be if we were whole. But she had curiosity!”

“Do you think she’ll come back?” My mother’s tone was cautious, but tinged with hope.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. The tears started building behind my eyes again. “I hope so, but, but you also saw me, and you were scared. Allison only saw my eyes, but you saw my face.”

“Oh, baby” My mother cooed reaching out to cradle me in her arms. “I’m sorry! So sorry! My other half doesn’t have many emotions left except fear, I have the rest. She…I’m sorry” “Allison won’t be coming back, will she?” I choked on the bile rising in my throat.

“I’m sorry honey, but if my other half saw you, well, then, then I doubt it.” My sobs began in earnest, and I pushed my mother away. I wanted to be left alone as my heart crumbled to dust. My mother walked away, she understood.

With my head in my hands, and my knees pressed against my chest, I cried for myself, and for Allison, who would never know that she was missing me, missing a part of herself. I jumped, and my head whipped up, when I heard a branch snap. The kitten that Allison had chased was staring at me, with round brown eyes. It crept closer until it settled between my thighs and chest. I stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, but then with a shaky sigh, I began to pet it.

A week passed and I had stayed, the kitten had stayed. I had not left this spot, my soul bleeding and my heart crying out for my other half. Only the kitten served as a comfort for me, because the kitten was something my other half had desired.

It was night and mother had just left after her failed attempt at coaxing me home. She left a plate of food next to me, which I ignored, but the kitten gobbled up. The moon was bright overhead and the forest was quiet.

As I sat contemplating my sorry existence, I almost missed the thrumming and buzzing occurring under my skin and in my bones. The sense of familiarity. I stood up on shaking legs and pushed my weak body back up onto the stone. Blindly reaching for the opening of the hole in the Wall, my hand found purchase with the soft skin of another human being.

I tilted my face up and smiled serenely, as I saw Allison, and felt myself being sucked slowly away and into completion. The thrilling experience of being knit back together again.

“Allison” I mouthed before I was drawn back into my body and my soul combined with its other half. I was one again.

“Oh my God!” I gasped at the rush of emotions colliding together in my body, each trying to find a place to take up residence. Pure bliss was shooting throughout me, and I knew. I knew that I had to save everyone. My mom, my family, I had to make them whole, and free.

Save them from living a lie, and give them back themselves. No one should be without their soul, no one should be kept from their bliss.

Madison Tempest currently lives in Manassas, Virginia. She goes to Woodbridge Senior High School, where she is a senior. She enjoys reading, writing, and playing volleyball.

71

The Scream I’m always amazed at how little people try. Everyone in the world is told that they can do anything, contingent on the fact that they try hard. It seems a reasonable enough proposal. Work hard, and you can’t go wrong. Even if it isn’t easy, do your best and it’ll all turn out okay, that’s the pitch. It works terrifically, nearly everyone buys it and as they graduate and step into the real world you can see on their shiny faces that with every fiber of their being, they believe that if they just work, they’ll be a success. And then, they give up.

I’ve seen it happen a thousand times, the first little hint of adversity sends them running, destroyed by the realities of the world, to the proverbial uterus of mediocrity. Not me though, for my entire life I met with thirty people a day, mostly corporate big shots that got there because their daddy owns the company, but some nice people too. I used to be a normal guy, woke up, kissed my wife, went to work, came home, drank my coffee, played golf on weekends, but I always knew I was special. I was an artist! I wouldn’t give up like those other sloths. I was going to make it through sheer force of will. …

“You’re fucking garbage!” Murmurs of agreement from the room echoed off the glass walls of the conference room. “You see kid, margins! It’s all about the margins! These just aren’t good enough, it costs too much to produce, it’s too hard to educate the end consumer about how to use it. Right! It’s just over complicated. Yes. You’re over selling it. Mhm. The packaging is all wrong, it draws our eye away from what you’re really trying to get at, and I don’t even know what that is! It’s too green. Too blue! Too yellow! Not blue enough. You should paint it totally white, and we have to imagine what’s inside it. No. Make it completely see through so we know exactly what we’re getting! Start over from square one. We won’t buy this! Your suit’s too small. I never want to see you again. Kill yourself!” While the meeting took place in a boardroom full of people, the, rather large, man at the end of the table did all the talking. The strange mix of, insults and support spewed from his mouth almost violently, but also never failed to encourage a rumbling of support from the dozen other people seated around the conference table. Stranger still, at the end of almost every sentence he would stop and agree with himself, proof that his multiple personalities were all involved in the autofellatio that was clearly part of his regular routine.

Eventually, after several more hours of being lambasted, by semi-constructive criticism. I left the building: downtrodden and jobless. For the duration of the afternoon, all I could do was try to remember the name of the book my daughter had asked for two Christmases ago. Cows That Type? Or maybe, Moo, Moo, Cows that Type. I remember it was something about cows… I didn’t know why it was so important that I remember. It was a fad, like an imaginary friend or dressing like a princess. But, for whatever reason, it was completely infuriating.

That my own daughter would buy into the mindless web of consumerism laid out by lame brain publishers who were too lazy to find something good.

Something about a farm, I said to myself. Some kind of dairy, something about writing, calligraphy maybe… I just couldn’t drag the title from the recesses of my mind. And yet, it nagged at me, tugging away like the details of a half remembered dream.

Sabi had begged for weeks, just for that stupid book. I told her all about what nonsense it was. “The cows! They write letters, daddy!” usually accompanied my morning coffee. “But cows can’t write letters. They don’t even have thumbs! How can you write letters without thumbs?” would always be my response. At first I would get drawn into long arguments with her about why she couldn’t have the book. But still her little mind persisted. “I’m sure they do,” became my go-to response, pushing her inane, yet endearing, chatter to the back of my mind for another eight hours. Who else but a child could set her heart so vehemently on something as pedestrian as this cow book?

At one point I considered giving in and just buying her the book, but after going to the store and giving it a once over, I was adamant that this piece of “book,” if it could be called such, was allowed nowhere near my house! The book was so formulaic it almost made me retch. It had no soul! Cows and farmers and archaic writing utensils! What was the point of it? Where was the heart? Children needed to see the beauty in life, not some refuse left behind by the board of directors of some unoriginal publishing company. I needed to teach the world, and my daughter, a lesson. Children’s books could be practical, and teach them all the values that I had been instilled with as a boy, instead of this nonsense about talking cows. But all Sabi knew was that she wanted to see typing cows, and I told her, that if she worked hard enough, she could have anything she wanted.

72

As I walked down the street, absentmindedly pondering bovine physiology, I almost forgot where I was going. I turned right, toward my old home, although it was all gone now. Only when I saw the ash hole where our old apartment had been, did I realize my error. I usually only see errors too late.

After the fire, I had to relocate to the other side of the river. I told myself it would be a great adventure, but in reality, I hated living over the bridge. I hated everything about it. The river stank like the corpses that every now and again washed ashore on its banks. My apartment, if it could be called such, was cold and unfamiliar, but a one bedroom apartment was all I needed anymore.

I was almost to the bridge now. Its familiar spires were oddly soothing. My pace quickened as I looked hastily at my watch. It read ten till seven, more than enough time to get home before the good programs started. Before my wife left, I used to love just sitting, contemplating the events of the day. Now though, every silence punctured my eardrums. All I heard were screams.

Just then, I noticed a small building, draped with old posters and graffiti, struggling to uphold its scholarly appearance under the weight of decades of grime. It was a bookstore; perhaps, the same bookstore where I had considered buying the book for Sabi. I can’t remember now. It looked as if it was closing for the night. In reality, I think I half imagined it sitting there. From all the way across the street I shouldn’t have been able to see it, I must have just seen the outline and guessed at the rest. The gossamer purple background, the mock-typewriter font, they all seemed so familiar to me but, I couldn’t believe it would still be in print. Hurriedly, with trepidation of a cow submitting his completed manuscript, I crossed the street. All day I had wondered about the title of Sabi’s greatest wish, and the idea that I would discover the truth so soon was a little frightening. I hadn’t sought it out, I hadn’t even seriously considered that the information could even be found. But here it was, staring me right in the face. Click Clack Moo: Cows that Type.

I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t move. I was furious. That book had to have been at least a decade old.

And yet, the cover wasn’t ripped, the color hadn’t faded, even the lettering, slightly raised by the stamp of the printing press, seemed to maintain all of its rigidity. Why would a bookshop acquire, let alone display, this antique piece of garbage? They may as well have displayed a year-old ham sandwich.

I entered the bookstore in a rage. For nearly eighteen months I had been berated by my boss, belittled to the point of insanity, told again and again how my work was inferior, insignificant, and inconsequential. Yet there, in the window of a reputable establishment, lay the same garbage that my six-year-old daughter had begged for for weeks. It was sickening. With just a tremble of shy hesitation, leftover from my recent termination, I grabbed the book from the window and shoved it in the manager’s face.

“This is garbage!” I declared, somewhat pompously, “What makes you think you can just shove any old book in the window and people will buy it? Why, I wouldn’t feed this to my dog, let alone read it.” “$12.95,” the manager replied indignantly, his eyes glossy with the slime exuded by eyes of a man who looked at everyone with equal contempt.

“What?” I could hardly to believe he would interrupt and charge me in the same breath.

“The book, it costs $12.95, before tax.” This latter half of the sentence was added greedily, his dull eyes shining somewhat brighter at the thought of gouging someone out of another few cents. “And the book’s not old. We just got a new shipment today,” he pointed to a large triangular display stacked high with books identical to the one in my hand.

My jaw dropped, and the manager went into a longwinded monotonous speech about how many they sold and why he thought the books was so good and how much children seemed to love reading about the magical typing cows. My ears were numb. The quiet chatter of the store’s interior turned to static in my ears. Just then, I head a scream. It was like the screams I heard every time it was too quiet. It cut against the soft ambiance of the store like glass severing flesh. I listened to it for a great while, analyzing its pitch and volume. It was the scream of a man who had lost everything, and it took me awhile to realize that it was coming from me.

The hum of every incandescent light was amplified to an extreme magnitude until I couldn’t stand it any longer, and fled from the bookstore, still screaming wildly.

Vaguely, I was aware that the manager was calling after me. I think it might have had something to do with the fact that the book, the wretched, overpriced, simplistic, disgusting excuse for a book, was glued to my hands. It seemed to have scalded me, and my flesh was now fused to its external cover like sinews of beef on a hot grill.

I ambled onto the bridge, pausing slightly. Why was it so important? What did it matter anyway? It was 73

a book, there were many books in the city, of varying quality, why should it be so important that this one stay out of the window of one particular shop. It would probably be replaced, forgotten about. The manager wouldn’t collect this particular twelve dollars and ninety-five cents, but he would certainly sell others. I looked down at the black disgusting water below me.

I was crying. As I stood trapped between the crest and the valley of what people called “success,” I thought back to two Christmases ago. Sabi awoke that morning with such bright eyes. She ran around the corner and dove towards the tree. It only took a second for her to realize that her prize wasn’t there; Sabi had always been a bright girl. Her reaction broke my heart. She didn’t moan or fuss, instead she turned to me and said, “I’ll try to work harder next year, Daddy.”

But she wouldn’t be given the opportunity. When our apartment burned down, Sabi was trapped inside, screaming.

I stood on the railing of the bridge now. The water seemed to calm itself, as if to welcome me, encourage me. I took one last look at either side of the bridge. The sun was just beginning to set over the city. I took one last breath, and gripped Sabi’s present gripped tightly against my chest. Perhaps now I could finally deliver it.

Alex Metz was born in Austin, Texas. After a brief 11-year residency in Bozeman, Montana, he moved to America's heartland. Currently residing in Carbondale, Illinois he spends his days writing short fiction and staring introspectively out windows.

74

Other People Are Not Medicine Breaking is the realization that I was lost, though I had learned to love being lost with you.

You were my moonlight, my stars and sun, a candle in the dark.

And like a candle you burnt out, trying to bring others light.

Breaking is the reverence I felt on those countless nights, on which you instilled in me how beautiful it was to be broken and how much more beautiful it was being broken with you.

It is the telltale tightness in my throat that always gave way to ashamed tears, because you were all kinds of broken and twisted.

And still, I wanted to try and fix you.

Only I needed saving just as much as you still do.

It is the feeling of guilt, mixed with pain and sorrow as I realize you were no longer the person with whom I had lost myself.

You and I, we deserved happiness.

So I left.

Breaking is rereading the last text you’ll ever send me: goodbye, is being in agony, but not being able to cry.

Lily Stachowiak is from Glen Ellyn, Illinois. She attends Glenbard West High School, where she will be a senior in the fall. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, writing poetry, and gardening.

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The Prendergasts I have been assigned to watch the Prendergasts, the family in the tree outside the apartment complex where I work and live. The brick building, surrounded by large lawns, rock gardens, and high fences, sits in the middle of a dry patch of desert, where the sycamore limbs hold leaves only at their ends. Working hours are tiring, all days of the week, for as long as I can manage. I usually endeavor to work near the small window in the supplies closet, where I have an optimal view of the tree. The notebooks from my observations have accumulated into large piles inside the closet. The flood of my work fills the room and overwhelms me from time to time, as if I’ve happened upon some root of mankind that will bury me alive in cleaning supplies and hypotheses.

I have other errands to run throughout the day, but Observer is my primary occupation.

I have been assigned to document the Prendergast’s lives for a sort of psychological analysis, but the greatest hindrance is my inability to speak with the family in the tree. The tree in question is about four stories high, with branches like broken limbs, bent and twisting and thinning at the ends. I can hear their dialogue, though I am unable to shout back through the barred window. The owner and the inhabitants of my building think strangely of my attempts at communication with the family, and I must not risk complaints if I am to stay on the job. In some aspects it is better this way, however, as verbal language may disrupt my study.

Around a year ago, when I first moved into the apartment and discovered the people living in the large tree, I deemed their location unfit. It isn’t that they were especially different or peculiar; it has its kitchencupboard secrets and closed doors as most families do.

“A tree,” I said to a woman once sitting next to me in the common room, “is not the proper location to raise one’s children.” She wore a long white gown down to her knees.

“It’s a test, I’m sure.” She looked somewhere behind my head. “We have so many of them here. It might be a new kind that they’ve just implemented.” She stood and walked away, pricking around with a metal rod as if she were an ant with flickering antennae. I didn’t manage to catch her name, though it may have been something like Ms. Eberhart; it didn’t matter because she left the next day. Few people stay in the apartment for an extended period of time; most leave in a year or two.

My boss is a short fat middle-aged woman named Ms. Trump who has been sitting at the front desk of the apartment for fourteen years, “Long enough to know the answers to questions you haven’t asked,” she reminds anyone who walks past. It’s nearly painful to look at her face, even if it only happens to appear within my peripheral vision, purple eye shadow and dark reddish-brown lipstick radiating a sort of ugliness that shines like street lamps on a path in the woods. Her brown hair is colored in a way so that you can’t tell whether the highlights are the original hair or the dye, and in more than one situation I have become so angry at her instructions that I have wished to tear her hair out, not only as a result of frustration, but also to rescue our eyes from visual vexation. To exacerbate my resentment towards her, Ms. Trump doesn't believe that Observer is a sufficient position, and she often pulls me away from the window and hands me a broom as if I were a housekeeper.

“Now don’t go sitting in there,” she says, “Come with me. There are rooms that need cleaning.” This is especially frustrating as the walls are often white and have little furniture. Even though I don’t get along very well with Ms. Trump, I wouldn’t dare anger her and risk losing my job.

The tree family consists of two parents and three children: a daughter, around eleven, and two sons, one of whom seems to be about seventeen years of age and the other six. Only the parents are permitted to leave the tree, and in multiple instances I have witnessed severe chastisement for any child attempting to climb past nearly three quarters of the way to the ground. The small boy, Coby, is especially mischievous and inquisitive, and even in situations of which his parents are ignorant, I often catch him hanging on a branch much lower than permitted and craning his neck to peer at the ground below.

Almost every morning, within five minutes of a quarter past seven, Mrs. and Mr. Prendergast arise from a makeshift leaf-branch bed. Mr. Prendergast looks as if he could be Ms. Trump’s brother, radiating the same sort of hideousness with a distended neck that appears to consist of solely folds of skin and eyebrows that crease downwards like two caterpillars kissing. His limbs are extraordinarily short, perhaps because of lack of use. Mrs. Prendergast could have been beautiful when she was younger, but she now has cavernous wrinkles painted into her face and motherhood sunken under her eyes. She, unlike her spouse, displays an abnormally long neck, and cries so frequently that her eyebrows have developed an upwards angle. Both Mrs. Prendergast’s appearance and manner give the impression of being discontent with humanity, and it seems as though the tree connects 76

her with her primordial past. After breakfast, the husband and wife climb ineptly, despite having done so for the past year, down and depart in separate directions while the children begin to wake.

The middle child, a girl named Carlotta, is my least favorite of the three children. She and her younger brother, Coby, often have disagreements about trivial things, such as what to listen to on the radio and whether their parents should bring home cornflakes or rice cereal. Whenever Carlotta happens to lose the argument, she reaches out and dangles Coby by his ankles until his face turns the same shade of purple as Ms. Trump’s eye shadow, threatening to drop him until he screams his consent. In these instances I find it extremely difficult not to break through the window and yell a garbled string of expletives, though I am never able to as Ms. Trump would surely dismiss me. I fear that someday in the future, Carlotta’s grip will falter, and I will be responsible for informing the housekeepers about the mess of a body they must now tidy.

Elan, the eldest child, is relatively separate from any sibling disputes. Although I am not especially fond of anyone in the family, I find Elan the most agreeable, yet I still feel rather perturbed when I observe him. He resides somewhere near the top of the tree and rarely interacts with other family members, only stumbling down to eat meals or attend mandatory congregations. Following some inspection, I became aware of his numerous peculiarities, the most noticeable, at least of those pertaining to physical characteristics, being his arms.

In both behavior and appearance, they look to be long ropes, limply swaying at his sides without comprehensible purpose, as if he doesn’t know how to use them. Elan’s posture doesn’t seem especially beneficial either, his back always hunched as if trying to hide some reprehensible family secret. His general conduct almost resembles that of an ape, though strangely he lacks the ability to climb about the tree safely. Most movements result in some scrape or laceration, and often I worry that he may fall along with his brother Coby.

After Elan received a particularly painful injury, I began to find the arboreal inhabitants rather disconcerting. While I had previously reconciled with the idea of raising a family in a tree, my uncertainties returned upon recognizing the many hazards of its location.

In recent observations, Carlotta and Coby have been unusually amicable towards each other, exultantly hurtling across the branches like a wildcat chasing an opossum. This has greatly decreased the agitation my inspection often causes. While I sweep fingernail clippings and tissues into the dustpan, the shouting makes me feel a sort of punctured satisfaction. Elan generally sits reading a book and not looking at anything, falling asleep whenever the leaves allow the sun through to his face and then lurching awake.

On cold winter days, the family huddles in a pitiful cluster as close to the ground as they can manage, the only circumstance in which Carlotta, Elan, and Coby are permitted in the lower branches of the tree. Ms. Trump declares, “You needn’t bother with anything but the housekeeping during much of the winter,” so a majority of my work as Observer is done during dreadful hours of the night. My keenness for the profession extends far beyond prescribed hours.

“Why it’s too chilly to be sitting there,” Ms. Trump asserts offhandedly when she catches me by the window on these sorts of days, and I throw all chance of writing a copiously precise report into the wastebasket along with torn pictures and used napkins. While at times Observer seems to be some elementary task for an adolescent in need of a trivial vocation, working for Ms. Trump is enough to make anyone tremble like an insect under a leather boot.

On the day of Coby’s birthday, I begin to have a peculiarly strong desire to observe incessantly. It’s similar to how birds know when there’s a storm coming, a kind of animal’s premonition, though relevant only to the happenings of the tree family. Fortunately, Ms. Trump is ill and unable to detach herself from her seat, and I am uninterrupted in my devotion.

Coby and the rest of the family are celebrating in the tree, a dull sort of gathering that arises when one has no acquaintances. Elan and his parents play cards at one side of the tree, Elan disdainfully observing his brother and sister chasing each other through the branches, like half wild horses at dusk before the lions come out. At this point, I wouldn’t move from the window if Ms. Trump herself threatened to fire me; I lean forward, holding my breath as to avoid obscuring my view of the tree. Elan doesn’t move from his seat at the card table; on one of the higher branches, he sits with his parents in front of the pile of cards, trying to build a house-like structure with the deck, but the cards fall down, so they build them again in a continuous cycle of ending and beginning.

It is a rainy day, the tree and the sky boasting a somewhat enclosed quality. As Carlotta chases Coby, Coby slides across the branch, for a moment a ballerina or ice skater or a gymnast, and then falls, grasping for 77

something underneath with his left hand, but he can’t hold on, dropping like an overripe plum into the blackberry bush thirty feet below.

The windows and doors of the apartment are comprised of thick glass and cold metal bars, thus greatly complicating any wish to visit the outdoors, except for prescribed “walking hours” or “exercise periods.” Ms. Trump is extremely health conscious, as are many of the other workers. Though greatly aware that doing so may cost me my vocation, I manage to wrestle past the white-coated worker reading by the door, and dash outside.

“It’s not time for your afternoon walk! Where are you going?” Ms. Trump yells, and she runs out the door behind me, the most work her diminutive limbs have done in her fourteen years spent melting into the chair at the front desk.

I manage to run so fast that I reach the tree before Ms. Trump can notify anyone, and I launch myself up into the it, yelling, “Why didn’t you save him? It would’ve taken you two steps to grab his shirt before he fell!”

Elan looks down at me with eyes like a crazed owl, though before I can reach him, I can feel Ms. Trump tugging at the back of my shirt. I try to escape, and I can see Coby’s body in the bush at the bottom of the tree, arm broken and neck twisted. “Elan!” Elan climbs up further, but one of his long arms slips and he scrapes his foot. Ms. Trump pulls me away from him, and he sidles up the tree in the torpid manner with which he accomplishes nearly everything, similar to a slow animal or an insect fixed in honey.

“Let’s go back to your room, okay, Elan?” Ms. Trump’s fat voice soothes, a blanket that smothers everything.

I look up at Elan, but he doesn’t move, his arms swaying in the wind.

“Come back, Elan. It’s almost time for dinner. There’s nothing in that tree, remember? It’s time to take your medication,” Ms. Trump says.

Karen Xia is a rising junior at Mountain View High School in Los Altos, California. Other than writing and reading, she enjoys debate, playing the piano, and binge watching TV shows.

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this year my dino spine got two hotspots from baby carrot fingers cinched in a locket of cantaloupe skin – then plummeted – pee-wee palms flared like rockets onto saucers – tiles set in ceilings – i was teacup tubbed – stairs on my back – a maudlin long-limbed dolt with boxed fire – little saint statues in panty drawer pyres – badland lesbians gecko eggs scrambled – tortilla chip grit on spools of velvet – the carpet and canola oil – laundromat blankets of genuine mint contested the stale theatre scent – cashew tire bellies tuesday saddle shoe cakewalk tallies – carousel pole sashes and couch brown grandpapa tummy ashes

Juels Chrisman is a soon-to-be senior at Bishop Lynch High School in Dallas, Texas. She frequently falls asleep in her glasses (and classes), drinks hot chocolate year-round, and writes exclusively in mechanical pencil.

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